


Of Wrath and Flame

by JMilz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, BAMF Draco Malfoy, BAMF Hermione Granger, Dark, Dark Magic, Death, F/M, Fiendfyre (Harry Potter), M/M, Meritocracy, Morally Grey Draco Malfoy, Morally Grey Hermione Granger, Order Member Draco Malfoy, Prison, Revenge, Slow Burn, The Dark Arts (Harry Potter), Unspeakable Hermione Granger, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25865680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JMilz/pseuds/JMilz
Summary: A new Dark wizard has risen to power, and with Ron Weasley dead and Harry Potter in prison, Hermione Granger is the Wizarding World's last hope. But she can't do it alone. To save Harry, she must make an alliance with her childhood rival, and he's not the same boy he was in school. Updated every Sunday.
Relationships: Charlie Weasley/Oliver Wood, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Parvati Patil/George Weasley
Comments: 86
Kudos: 81





	1. The Red Chamber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Graphic depiction of human torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A giant thank you to my betas, Becks and Erin, for all the hard work they've put into helping me with this fic. And a thank you to all the folks at the HP Fanfic Writing Guild on Discord. Y'all are doing Merlin's work.

Fear. _True_ fear—fear of torture, fear of death. It left a sour aroma in the air, one that could only be recognized by those that had become familiar with its vile, never-ending presence. It was stagnant and thick and rotten and metallic—like decay and sweat and blood and war.

Regrettably, Hermione Granger knew it well.

Only in the North Corridor had she ever felt it fester in the atmosphere around her; it was the place where fear was born and bred, where it came to thrive, and where it often died too.

Behind the brass door, the Minister toyed with his prey.

She had once been that prey.

Shaking off the thought, she pinned her eyes on the scarred Auror loitering by the door—a wide man with a crooked nose and even crookeder teeth. He watched her each and every move, his hands clasped in front of him and his wand ready for the draw.

_"The Ministry no longer exists to protect the people. It exists to protect itself."_

Charlie had told her that once. It seemed to grow truer by the day.

"State your business," the Auror growled.

"The Minister requested my presence."

He licked his thin, cracked lips. "Oh, he did, did he now?"

"He did. I received the summons four minutes ago." She proffered him the parchment that had landed atop her desk, prompting her for a late evening of unexpected misery.

"You coulda plagiarized 'at." He reached inside of his robes and extracted an ink-stained scroll. Unfurling it, he grunted, "Name?"

"Hermione Granger."

"Right, and I'm Voldemort himself. Give me your wand, _Hermione Granger_."

Begrudgingly, she held out her beloved wand—her only sanctuary in the house of horrors that the Ministry of Magic had become. She was always prepared to fight, always prepared to flee, but without her wand, she was helpless—a mere fly in the Minister's web of boundless power.

" _Hm_ , always thought you'd be taller. Reckon the folks at the _Prophet_ want to make their heroes look important though, don't they?"

She managed a pinched smile.

"My wand?"

"Oh, right, here you are."

Knowing what was to come next, she tucked it in her robes and held out her clammy hand. She had been through the ritual many times before, yet somehow, each time was just as frightening as the last.

He didn't warn her.

The tip of his wand hissed against her outstretched palm as he watched her, his gaze boring into her throughout the entire harrowing process, daring her to make a fatal mistake. Alas, Hermione steadied herself. The Red Chamber's very foundation was pain. It only made sense its entrance was too.

"Don't flinch or else I'll hafta do it all over again."

She nodded. She had made that misstep once before.

Smoke and stench swirled into the empty air and a low whistle snuck past her gritted teeth. The telltale burn melted through her soft flesh and the muscle that lined her bones, but she could not afford to show any distress—not given her public image, not when so much was on the line.

The agony seemed to last an age.

Once the Auror finally gave her a confirming gesture, she quietly studied the angry, marred skin. Yet again, she had been branded with the intricate Mark of the Red Chamber. Yet again, her labyrinthian palm matched the inlay of the brass door itself.

"First time in the chamber?"

"Hardly."

"Then you understand how it works. I wouldn't keep him waitin' if I were you."

"Of course not," she lilted. "I look forward to being of service."

"Very good, then. Long live His Excellency."

"Long live."

Anxious, Hermione approached the entrance of glimmering brass and pressed her palm to its very center. In an impressive feat of magical engineering, the maze-like inlay glowed molten red—welcoming her, warning her.

The searing burn was hauntingly familiar.

"Like dragon's fire, innit?"

Hermione ignored the Auror, though he was quite right.

 _"The flames of hell,"_ she'd once told Ron. _"That's what it feels like."_

The pain ceased.

Noiselessly, the door rose upward. Its silence was unexpected—a stark contrast to the shrieking of metal on stone that one would expect.

Her eyes shuttered as she stepped inside.

"Ah! Miss Granger! I've been expecting you!"

Never had she loathed a voice more. It was baritone and suffocating and it echoed throughout the massive chamber like a string quartet. 

It was inescapable. _He_ was inescapable.

"I believe you know my guest."

The slam of the brass door sounded behind her—a subtle reminder that the magic was imperfect after all, or perhaps, it was meant to be loud, meant to intimidate. Slowly, trepidatiously, she opened her eyes.

How instant regret could be.

_"Neville."_

He hung in the air, his spine arched beyond all that was natural and his mouth ajar. No screams. No pleas or cries.

Only silence.

"I thought you might want to join us for a little _reunion,_ ” the Minister said with a smirk. “It’s my understanding you two fought in the war together. Is that right?”

Seated upon his dais, he fingered his yew wand. He barely had to touch it to hold the spell.

"Yes," she whispered. "We did."

"And he fought bravely, I presume?"

"Y-yes, Your Excellency. He fought very bravely."

"Given his decorated background, I assumed as much. First Order of Merlin, former Auror." The Minister pushed his long, dark locks away from his face. "The history books certainly hold him in high regard . . . which is _precisely_ why I was so disappointed when my Aurors discovered him with _this_."

The Minister's warped shackles, a cursed pair he wore in the loops of his belt, jangled discordantly as he reached inside of his robes. He pawed at the fabric for a moment before finally producing a bloodstained scroll; it was far too thick to be the common list, but far too slim to be any other Ministry record Hermione knew. Her attention was fixed upon it, because whatever it was, it was fully capable of leading to Neville's death.

"Do you know what this is, Miss Granger?"

Hermione shook her head, careful not to glance above him. If she had to look at her longtime friend, she might have lost her feigned equanimity, and _that_ , she could not afford.

"No, Your Excellency. I do not."

"Well, my murderous Mudblood, _this_ is a _map_ ," he explained. "A map of which I am the sole possessor. To obtain it, Mr. Longbottom would have to have been _inside_ of my office without proper supervision _or_ permission." He tucked the parchment back inside of his robes. "As you know, that in and of itself is worthy of a lifetime sentence."

Never had silence been so deafening. Still, Neville floated above, his body contorted inhumanely as he rotated in a macabre display for two.

"You're rather quiet, Miss Granger. Surely, you don't disagree with my assessment?"

Harry had told her she would have to hurt her friends, yet somehow, she never imagined it would be Neville.

"I—" she faltered momentarily. " _Ahem_ , no, Your Excellency. You're quite right. There must be consequences—n-naturally."

The Minister stepped down from his dais, stalking towards her like the apex predator that he was. His bright blue irises, so human, so unlike Voldemort's slits of red, glinted.

They could have been the eyes of Albus Dumbledore himself.

"And what of the _severity_ of these consequences? Have you any suggestions?"

Blood pounded in her ears. By the torchlight, she could see Neville's shadow upon the stone floor—the same stone floor that had been stained with the organs of dozens of Order members before him. She had to choose her words meticulously, for if she didn't, his fate would be quick to follow theirs.

"He would be a valuable asset," she said, careful of each and every syllable. "If you only allowed him to rehabilitate, he could help us. He could . . . _spy_ for us, even."

The Minister backed away from her and craned his neck. If Hermione did not know any better, she might have thought he was considering her proposal.

"Perhaps, I didn't give you the necessary details, Miss Granger. The map that he stole is no _ordinary_ map . . . It's a map of Stafhelm. On it is every entrance, every exit, every _cell_." He appraised her for a moment. "You see, I believe that Mr. Longbottom was trying to help Potter escape."

"Escape? From Stafhlem? It can't be done, Your Excellency. You've said it yourself!"

"You're right," he said, his tone bored. "It can't be done, but if anyone were to try, is Mr. Longbottom not a prime candidate? He has a history of heroics, he resigned from the department as soon as I became Minister, _and_ he's been associated not only with Harry Potter, but also with Ginevra Weasley and Xenophilius Lovegood. Now I know these were once your friends, Miss Granger, so please forgive me when I say that traitors keep the company of traitors. Some, such as yourself, can be rehabilitated. Others—" He looked up at Neville's suspended form. "—cannot."

He snapped his fingers.

Neville, his eyes darting to and fro with terror, collapsed onto the stone floor in a symphony of breaking bones. He was still immobile, but his mouth was ajar as he silently attempted to scream, desperate to be freed from the infamous room—desperate for Hermione to save him.

Blood filled the mortar crevices of the cobblestone.

"Yes, prison simply won't do," the Minister said, softly. He circled Neville, occasionally stopping to press the toe of his boot to the rebel's quivering gut, testing Neville’s humanity as he often did with his victims. "The guards in Azkaban are too weak—too _kind_ to the prisoners. And even with the Dementors reinstated, there are too few to issue the Dementor's Kiss quickly enough . . . No, we won't waste our resources on _traitorous thieves_. Swine of this sort—" He stepped on Neville's face, earning an agonized wince. "—deserve _death_."

Capital punishment.

Hermione felt like the room was closing in on her as she tried to process the dreaded proclamation. The loss of Neville could mean the final collapse of the Order of the Phoenix, for their numbers were already far too few.

 _"Protect the Order, Hermione. Whatever it takes, you_ must _protect the Order."_

She could not fail Harry. She could not fail the Order of the Phoenix.

"Excuse me, Your Excellency, but what about a _different_ type of rehabilitation?"

The Minister removed his boot from Neville's contused face. The dark leather was stained crimson, and as Neville's head slumped sideways, a tooth clattered to the floor.

_"Elaborate."_

"W-well, there are other methods, aren't there?" Hermione stammered, trying to shake her disquietude as she examined her friend's mangled nose and bleeding ears. "I-in fact, you've already started one of them."

The Minister's mouth stretched into a mischievous grin. "Torture."

Betrayal was bitter, but it was a flavor Hermione knew well.

"It's worked before. I-it could work again, couldn't it? As I said, he would be a valuable asset, not only for ranks within the Ministry but also as a warning to any other rebels. It will—it will dampen their spirits, losing someone like Neville. He's—erm—he's a bit of a hero of theirs. Similar to Potter."

"Surely his death would dampen their spirits as well, then?"

"W-well yes, but e-excuse me, sir, if I may . . . I—I know most of the Order, personally. It would embarrass them— _affect_ them _more_ , if they saw someone like him working for the Ministry. If he—if he dies a hero . . . Well, that would only encourage them. He’ll be a martyr, sir. They'd want to retaliate . . . And—and there's always the option of using him as a spy too, like I mentioned before . . . He has the highest level of clearance and would provide us valuable information. Information no one else could offer."

The Minister narrowed his eyes. "We couldn't trust him as a spy."

"Then you could keep him solely working for us! They would—they'd come for him. In full force, if my prediction is right."

"They'd be willing to risk death?"

"They—they don't have much sense, the rebels. Everything is about their—their warped sense of honor."

"And you suspect that this _sense of honor_ may become trouble for me?"

"That _is_ my fear, Your Excellency—rebels causing more difficulty for you and your—your _noble cause_."

He stiffened, a slight tell that few were astute enough to notice, yet Hermione always did. What he was about to say—it would be a test.

"Do you think he may have learned his lesson already? Perhaps this little _meeting_ has shown him where his loyalties should lie." The Minister squatted beside Neville and drew a line in the blood upon his bruised cheek. Shining garnet in color, it was the evidence of internal bleeding.

Hermione had seen blood like that before—but only in battle.

When Harry Potter told her she would have to do many things she did not want to do, she did not know that would include having her friends tortured.

_"Stay strong, Hermione. The Order depends on you."_

Harry's words echoed in her mind like a mantra, a dystopian battle cry that reminded her that everything she did was for the greater good. Toeing the line between black and white, Hermione Granger would swim in grey, and it was what she did in grey that would save them all.

She had to pass the test.

"No," she choked out. The word barely sounded like her own. "His will is strong. It will take days—maybe weeks."

"Like his parents."

Hermione swallowed.

"Like his parents."

The Minister chuckled, clearly delighted by the disturbing comparison. "This idea of yours, Miss Granger—it may be one of the best I've heard all month." His knuckles went white with anticipation as he pressed his wand to Neville's temple. "If it works as well, as I believe that it might, you may be in for a promotion."

Then, he whispered the incantation that Hermione loathed even more than that of the Killing Curse.

 _"Crucio_."

Neville's teeth, crimson with his own blood, ground together as the curse wracked his entire body. The charm suppressed his screams, and in a way, it was even more terrible than if she could hear the din of his misery.

 _"Imperio!"_ the Minister shouted, maniacally. "Oh, Miss Granger, I do have to thank you for your recommendation. This is quite the _treat_."

With the inflection of the final word, he gave his wand an abrupt jerk—then another—and another.

Neville began beating his own head against the floor, but the pained expression on his bloody, bruised face told Hermione a story she already knew: She had experienced it herself. She had seen it happen to nine others. She was complicit.

If everything she did was to protect the Order, how was it that she felt like a traitor?

The Minister barked a gleeful laugh, and while she expected him to cry out another Unforgivable Curse, he slashed the air with his wand and shrieked something else instead—a word she did not know.

Alas, she did not need to know it to recognize it.

Twelve years prior, Antonin Dolohov had cast the very same curse upon her.

"You seem surprised to see this magic," the Minister noted, his gaze trained on Hermione rather than Neville's widening eyes. "You know it well."

Trembling, Hermione nodded. "Y-yes, Your Excellency. In the Battle of the D-Department of Mysteries, your—your father used it."

"On you."

She gulped. "Yes, sir. On me."

"Fascinating. It's been a family favorite for many centuries, so I suppose it's no surprise. Interesting you've never mentioned it, though." As he looked at Neville, he seemed wistful. "The effects are long-lasting if the victim lives. The scar tissue mutates, pulsating from the inside, holding magic so toxic the victim aches for years to come—though I'm sure you know _that_ already."

He trailed the tip of his wand across Neville's cheekbone, only to push it sadistically into the swelling around his eyes. If Neville was reacting, he was too deformed for it to show.

"Each time you step into the Department of Mysteries, you feel the wrath of his wand, don't you? As you're researching, as you're doing paperwork. The most mundane activities are nearly unbearable, all because the magic is roiling in its birthplace."

Hermione said nothing.

"He's claimed you forever, and just as that pain follows you, it will follow Mr. Longbottom—that is, of course, if he survives."

"Neville is strong," she replied, thickly. "He'll survive."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "We will see."

Hermione knew not what the next wordless curse was, but it was callous and unmerciful and she found herself wanting to vomit as the Minister danced around with sickening jubilance. Neville's head quaked and he frothed at the mouth, scarlet bubbles dribbling down his violently purple neck and heaving chest. The more his state worsened, the more joyous the Minister became.

If Hermione did not intervene, he would die or be driven to madness.

"He's a pure-blood, you know!" she cried out.

The Minister halted and raised a single bushy brow. "Pure-blood, you say? How _rare_."

"To add even more value to your ranks," she continued. "Voldemort himself was willing to find a place for him."

"I do not care what _Tom Riddle_ was willing to do," he spat. "Might I remind you that you and I share one thing in common, Miss Granger. Neither of us are pure-bloods. Does that make us less valuable?" He turned back to Neville. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more _work_ to do. . . After all, if I am to accept him into my ranks, he must have learned his lesson. You said it yourself, did you not?"

She had, and if she did not stand by her word, she would sign his death warrant—as well as hers, and that of the cause. There was a chance that he would survive. No matter how little, there was a chance.

_"Imperio!"_

Again, Neville beat his own forehead against the stone floor, but this time, with much more force. Hermione recognized the change in him as the robotic movement of an Imperius victim turned to the uncontrolled chaos of a seizure, and though she desperately wanted to step in, she knew that she could not.

Harry’s voice echoed in her mind. 

_"No matter what happens, you have to do what they say."_

The seizing stopped.

Frowning, the Minister approached Neville, only to toe his mutilated face just as he had earlier. His eyes may have been swollen shut, but behind those bruised lids, Hermione knew that they were lifeless—glassy pits of mortality like those of Luna and Arthur and Ron.

All her friends were dead or dying.

"Pity. You made him sound like he would have been quite the asset."

Shocked and struck by grief, Hermione watched helplessly as the Minister took Neville's wand and spun it between his fingers. It was yet another trophy to add to his ever-growing collection, another showpiece to keep his followers in line. Unlike wands from lesser wizards, it was a trophy that might even turn the tides of some allegiances.

In less than a day, Neville had been demoted from a hero of the Order to a corpse in the Red Chamber.

"Clean up this mess," the Minister commanded. "He's to be taken to the fourth floor for incineration. I don't want his friends thinking they've earned the right to bury their dead."

The stink of murder was in her nose, suffocating her. Dizzying her. But Hermione, with the weight of the cause on her shoulders, managed a tremulous bow.

"Yes, Your Excellency."


	2. To Flee by Night

The post-curfew silence was foreboding. Led only by the light of the waning moon, Hermione followed the familiar path of cobblestone, her wand clutched tightly and her hood pulled over her head. Still, his burning flesh stung her nose. Still, she could feel his ashes fluttering hotly against her cheeks. 

Once upon a time, he had been a simple boy searching for a toad—and her first true friend.

She shed a tear before quickly wiping it away, for there was no time to dwell on the fallen. The Order of the Phoenix was soon to see a paradigm shift of epic proportions, and with such a shift, more responsibility would inevitably be thrust upon her.

_More._

It seemed impossible—but surrendering wasn't an option.

_"Promise me you'll stay strong for Ginny and my mum, for Harry—and—and for the rest of them. You have to stay strong, no matter how hard it gets, Hermione. They need you."_

Promises were not meant to be broken, even if they were to the dead.

With the weight of the Earth on her shoulders, Hermione Granger would forge onward. For Ronald. For Harry. For witches, wizards, and Muggles everywhere. The Order of the Phoenix was crumbling, and even if she was surrounded by the rubble of the departed and the imprisoned, she would be the beacon of light that the cause needed. 

Some said she already was. 

But that was far from the truth.

The Order was strong in the hearts of so many still, even when the odds were against them in every way. 

At the Rook House, there was Xenophilius and Charlie. At the Burrow, there was Bill, George, Pomona, and Molly. Then, there were the Order's many Unplottable havens, including Grimmauld Place and a half dozen others. In each and every one of them, the flames of the Order of the Phoenix burned on, hidden in the penumbra of the wicked world.

 _They_ were the cause. They were the torches in the dark. The ones standing behind her, giving her every bit of strength that they had. 

Giving her hope.

Nevertheless, there were the unavoidable sacrifices of rebellion as well. For some to survive, there were many that would not live to see the future for which they had fought. Neville Longbottom, while it was a crass rumination, was just another of those sacrifices _—_ a knight removed from the chessboard. 

A knight she knew. A knight she loved.

A knight who left someone behind.

The evening had stretched on and despite her exhaustion, Hermione had the daunting task of bearing bad news. To other members of the Order, it would come in the form of her Patronus, but for the blonde witch that was closest to Neville, it would have to come from her lips. 

It was this that led her to the main intersection of the street, the crossing where the alleys of Diagon and Knockturn met and where the guards were notorious for harassing late-night undesirables. Unsurprisingly, two were standing by Gringotts, their wands glowing and their stances wide with self-importance. 

Hermione tucked her own wand into her robes, knowing quite well that they may hex her if they saw her carrying it.

As she drew nearer, their brows began to furrow.

"Ay! Ay, you!" said the larger of the two men. "What're you doin' out pas' curfew?"

Hermione sighed and held up her empty hands. Their wand-light was blinding.

"I'm an Unspeakable with the Department of Mysteries. By the Decree of Exemption for Ministry of Magic Employees, I'm permitted to be outside of my home at _any_ time, _even_ if it's after curfew."

He snorted. "An Unspeakable, eh?"

"Yes, an Unspeakable."

Hermione's vision was failing her, yet it was just good enough to take in his features. One of his eyes was scarred and milky and seemed to be in a constant state of motion, almost as though it had a will all its own. She tried not to stare, but with his spellwork illuminating his twisted face, it glowed like a grotesque, wet opal.

Guards were scarcely the Ministry's finest.

" _Hmph._ I'm gonna need more than _that_ if you plan on stayin' out o' Azkaban tonight, love. What's your name?"

"Hermione Granger. I'm sure you've heard of me."

"' _Ermione Granger,_ " the man repeated, brandishing his shining wand. He did not seem fazed by his partner's doubtful cackle. "And what in Merlin's name would a Minister's pet like Granger be doin' out at half ten?"

"I have _work_ to do. And can you dim it down a bit? I can barely see!"

"Yeah, well, my eyes ain't too keen, love, and I need to be gettin' a good look atchya if you're claimin' to be _'ermione Granger_. . ." The keys on his belt jangled as he waddled closer. "Well, I'll be damned . . . You bloody well could be 'er, couldn't you? Nigel, she look like 'ermione Granger t'you?"

The second guard, an unnaturally skinny man with a wooden leg, did not leave his post.

"Could be. Even so, bit late to be out an’ about, ain’t it? Could be an imposter, too.”

“Whatchoo mean?” 

“'ow we know she ain't usin' Polyjuice Potion?"

The larger guard jabbed his wand beneath her chin, forcing her to look up at him with disdain. "That's a good point, Nigel. 'ow _do_ we know you ain't usin' Polyjuice?"

"While I can assure you I'm not," Hermione sneered, "I highly encourage you to follow protocol."

"Ah, right." Perspiration was dewing upon the guard's wrinkled forehead. "Erm—go on, then. But keep it slow! No funny business."

"And don't forget you're outnumbered 'ere," Nigel added. "One wrong move and I'll turn your brains to jelly!"

Hermione was quite confident that she would win a duel against both of them, but she was not looking for a confrontation. Slowly, and with one hand still in the air, she slowly reached into her robes to retrieve her wand. 

Compliance. A peace offering.

"Here you are. Vine and unicorn hair, eleven inches—just as it should be."

"Donchoo get smart with us," warned Nigel. His peg leg clinked loudly against the cobblestone street as he approached her. " _We'll_ tell _you_ what that wand is and what it should bloody be. And when it comes back that you're a nasty lit'le liar—"

"Nigel," the first guard muttered. In his hand was the common list. "She checks out."

"She still ain't told us 'er reason for bein' 'ere though, and according to 'er lit'le exemption, if a reason don't suit us, we can hold anyone, Ministry employee or not." Nigel leaned in, his breath hot on her face. "Dunno 'bout you, Gambol, but Miss Granger 'ere seems to be actin' rather _funny_ to me."

"Oh, come off it, mate! Think about who she bloody is! D'you _really_ want to burn 'er broom?"

"It's _'cause_ of who she is that I want to burn 'er broom. While some folks seem to forget about 'er past, I remember that she used to be a good friend of 'arry Potter and all those Lovegood and Weasley mates of his." He smirked, exposing his rotting, stinking teeth. "So, Miss Granger, what _exactly_ is your business in Diagon Alley tonight? Meetin' anyone _interestin’_?"

Hermione clenched her jaw. 

"Considering that information is solely for the Department of Mysteries and the Minister for Magic, I can't say I'm inclined to tell you . . ." She smirked. "Unless you want me to report that you asked me to divulge confidential information?"

Nigel's eyes widened in horror.

"That's what I thought," she snarled. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have someplace to be."

The two guards did not utter another word. How ironic it was that they had just granted passage to the most treasonous witch in Britain.

* * *

_LONG LIVE HIS EXCELLENCY._

The words were charmed everywhere. Upon signs and boarded-up windows. On doors and stall covers. Lining the shingles of battered roofs.

The state of the world was etched into every inch of Diagon Alley, flashing in blue and green and red—and it made Hermione ill.

Weary guards had charmed their names into the slabs of wood, inconspicuous compared to the grand show of the Minister's glory, but still there. Some signs pleaded that nobody trespass. A mere suggestion to the guards, and one they often chose to ignore.

Hermione counted four unboarded shops—three fewer than there were during her last visit.

They were the stubborn few—the ones that had not gone under during the reign of meritocracy. A struggling minority. A minority that chose to lose their Galleons instead of their dignity.

But it was past curfew and the shop lights had been doused hours earlier—except for those of one.

The Leaky Cauldron.

While the inn's usual patrons were banned from late-night libations, it still was able to generate gold by becoming the stomping grounds for the Ministry's loathsome subordinates. From Aurors to informants, the grimiest of the Minister's hirelings gathered there, spitting curses and chugging firewhisky each and every night.

The inn’s employees suffered for it.

The landlady could take care of herself, but one of the poor waitresses was a Squib, and those that visited often knew she could commonly be found missing her entire head of hair or trying to serve drinks with backward knees.

As Hermione opened the door, it became clear which spell the woman endured that day.

"Hullo, love," she drawled tiredly, scratching at one of many nasty boils. "Good to see ye again."

"Good to see you too, Laurel, though I do wish the circumstances were better." Hermione squeezed her bony hand. "I hope that's the worst they've done this evening."

Laurel pushed a bronze curl behind her ear. "I wish. The big 'en in the corner over there—he pinned me to the rafters earlier. Must've been half an hour I was stuck up there, twiddlin' me thumbs."

"Oh, that foul—"

"Hermione Granger!"

Alarmed, Hermione turned on her heel to see who the ringing voice belonged to.

Approaching her was a man in navy robes. He had sweeping blond hair. Jade eyes that were too close together. An _infuriating_ lopsided smirk. She knew the man well—probably better than she would have liked.

"Jonathan," she lilted, forcing a bitter smile, "what a pleasant surprise."

"Funny, you don't make it sound like it's pleasant at all!" He gestured Laurel, lazily—as though she were barely worth the effort. "Let me guess: This one's been running her mouth."

"She didn't have to. What happened here is fairly obvious, I'd say."

"Ah, so she decided _not_ to tell you what she did then. Suppose it wouldn't matter, though. Always pitying her like she's some kind of helpless animal . . . Then again, she sort of is, isn't she?"

"It isn't pity for her as much as it is disgust for _them_." 

"Disgust, right," he hummed. "Well, I suppose I better watch my tongue then. With what you do to people who disgust you and all . . . What is it the _Prophet_ calls you nowadays? The Murderous Mudblood? The Killing Queen? The headlines never seem consistent."

She couldn't let him get a rise out of her. It was exactly what he wanted.

Instead, she deadpanned, "One of the two."

The smirk faded from his whiskey-soaked lips.

"On a more serious note, the Minister has been more than clear about his stance on service Squibs. As your superior, I'm supposed to report any wrongdoing I come across, and what I see here is a group of guards and Aurors tormenting a waitress for fun."

Laurel stared at her, hopefully. Longingly.

Perhaps Hermione couldn't save her forever, but she could save her for a night.

"So that's why you're here amongst us _plebeians_? To come in on your white horse and scold us?"

"No. That part's a happy accident." She nodded at the group by the bar. "Who gave her the boils?"

He didn't answer.

"Unless you want your name in the Minister's ear, you'll cooperate, Bragwit."

The Auror nursed his glass of whiskey, his eyes pinned upon her even as he sucked his teeth at the sourness.

A short, defiant protest.

One he broke only seconds later.

"Gordon. The one in the green hat."

"Thank you," Hermione said, stiffly. "I'll note your candor in my report."

"Good." He paused for another sip of whiskey before leaning towards Laurel. "You ought to get back to your work, Squib. I suspect my colleagues are thirsty."

Wordlessly, she slumped away.

Hermione glowered at the Auror as Laurel scurried towards the howling group at the bar. They mocked and shouted at her, while some went as far as throwing drinks at her and charming her skirt to fly upward.

Barbarism had become the way of the Wizarding World and nobody seemed to care.

"So, Granger," Bragwit rumbled, interrupting her thoughts. "Now that your little friend has given us some privacy, what are you _really_ doing here?"

Hermione craned her neck. One of the guards had raised their hand to Laurel, threatening to smack her.

"I'm looking for someone," she said, distractedly. 

"You'll have to be more specific."

"The landlady.”

"Ah, _the landlady,_ " Jonathan repeated. He took another sip of his drink. "And what business do you have with _her_?"

"That's confidential."

Still, she watched Laurel as the Aurors and guards pushed her around, sputtering threats of hexes and worse.

"Is it now? Will it be confidential when her name is on the list tomorrow?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Typical,” he snorted. “Funny how you judge us for having a bit of fun with the Squib, but here you are, the Dealer of Death herself, here for an innocent woman."

He calmly swirled the aromatic spirit, as though murder were no more alarming than a change in the weather. Maybe it wasn't anymore. Maybe that's just the way the world was.

"Ah well, what’s another pound of flesh?" he added. "I mean, it only makes sense. After what her little _boyfriend_ did, I can't imagine it serves us well to keep her alive."

"As I said," Hermione growled, "my business with her is confidential. If you really want to know more, you'll need to earn another level in rank."

" _Pfft!_ I wasn't _asking_ for more information. Everyone knows that business with you or Zabini ends in _someone_ going missing . . . How is he anyway? That Zabini’s a good bloke.”

"He’s fine." There was a shriek of cruel laughter from across the room, one Hermione found hard to ignore. "Anyway, the Minister won't be pleased if I delay much longer. Where _is_ the landlady?”

"In back. I'll have someone go fetch her."

"That won't be—"

"Carvin! Go get the landlady!"

A brawny woman downed the contents of her flagon and belched. Her face was as red as her robes. 

"The landlady? Whatchoo want to see _'er_ for?"

"Miss Granger here has some business with her," Jonathan said boredly. "It's all a bit over your head, my friend. Just go get her and spare us the questions, will you?"

She looked from Hermione to Jonathan a few times before finally deciding to waddle towards the back. After a moment, she returned, dragging Hannah Abbott by the arm.

The Aurors and guards roared with excitement.

"String 'er up by 'er thumbs!"

"Give the Squib the ol' Cruciatus and make 'er watch!"

"NO!" Hermione boomed. " _Ahem._ The force won't be necessary. I have— _special_ plans for her. Very special plans."

"A spitfire, this one!" Carvin laughed. "If you need someone to hold 'er down, you let me know, yeah? Dirty Squib lover."

With malice in her eyes, Hannah wrenched her arm away from the muscular woman's loosening grip. If Hermione had known Bragwit was going to send one of his minions after her, she would not have told him who she was looking for.

Hannah glared at her, but whether it was for show or not, Hermione didn't know.

"Miss Abbott."

" _Granger._ What brings _you_ here?"

"Business."

She looked around the busy inn. They all stared at her, some still whispering their speculations of Hannah's fate, while others confessed to envy.

For months, they had been dreaming of the day her blood spilled.

As far as they knew, it was time.

" _Private_ business," Hermione amended.

"Come to kill me, then, have you?"

"We can discuss my intentions once we're alone."

"Good. These animals are the last people I'd want to see on my deathbed, anyway." Her attention lingered on Jonathan. "Follow me, my room's just up the stairs there."

Glancing to and fro, Hermione followed Hannah up the stairs and slipped into a room at the very end of the corridor. Quickly, the blonde witch cast a Muffliato Charm.

"I can't say I expected you," Hannah said.

"I can't say I want to be here. But it's important. You have to leave. _Now_."

"Leave? I—I don't understand. Why would I leave? I know they're awful, but—"

"Some questions are going to be asked at the Ministry and it's best that you disappear," Hermione explained. "There's a sort of house, well it's more of a cottage, but it's in the countryside—far from here, in Ireland. You'll meet Hagrid there—"

 _"Slow down,"_ Hannah insisted. "Hermione, _what_ is going on?"

"I already _told_ you. Something came up at the Ministry. If you don't leave right now, you could be in danger. Now, we really don't have time to talk about it, so you need to trust me on this, okay?”

“Danger. What _kind_ of danger?"

“ _Grave_ danger. Look, I'll explain everything when we go, but it's not safe for you right now."

"But _why_? What did _I_ do that is putting _me_ in so much danger? I run their bloody pub! I see them every day! I haven't done any—" Realization filled Hannah’s wrinkles of perplexion. Petrified, she backed away. "Hermione . . . Where is Neville?"

"We'll discuss him once you're safe," Hermione said, quickly. "For now, I need you to _trust me_ and give me your _ruddy_ hands because I have an illegal Portkey out of here and it's set to go off any minute now—"

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me where he is!"

"I—Hannah, please understand . . . I—I didn't have a choice—"

"Didn't have a choice!" the Hufflepuff scoffed. "Just like you didn't have a choice with Luna or Padma or Ron?"

"Hannah!" Hermione gasped, horrified by the depth of her friend's accusation. "They were—Ron was . . . Look, I know you're upset and you have every right to be, but the Portkey is set to go off in—" She checked her watch. "—two minutes! Whether you like it or not, they'll come for you if you stay here, and I know you're mad at me right now, but I care about you too much to let you die so please, just _come with me_ and I'll tell you everything once we get there, okay?"

Hannah simply scowled at her.

"I'd rather die than be anywhere near you."

"Hannah—"

"No, Hermione. You don't get to do this. You don't get to storm into _my_ inn and tell _me_ where _I_ should go without so much as telling me _why_ or _what_ happened, or where Neville is or how—"

"Hannah, I'm sorry, but I really don't have time for this."

"And I don't have—"

_"Petrificus Totalus!"_

Hannah froze in time. Her snarling mouth immediately shut and her arms clapped down by her sides before stiffly, she fell to the ground.

Only her eyes could move. Darting. Staring. Accusing.

"I'm sorry," Hermione apologized, sinking down to grab her friend's shoulder. "I had to."

She tucked her wand in her pocket and retrieved a crumpled piece of parchment from inside of her robes. It was blank, mostly, except for the edge of some old illegible scribbles. Nothing questionable by any reasonable person's standards. 

A simple, ordinary scrap of parchment.

But for Hannah Abbott, it was her only key to freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my betas, Becks and Erin. Extra big thank you to Becks for finding the issues I had been looking for forever.


	3. Hickaby Cottage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to Erin for brushing through this so many times and to Becks for her Big Edit Energy™️ that's helped this work out immensely.
> 
> Please check out Becks's amazing Dramione works here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katschako/pseuds/sweetestsorrows

East Hulltow was a remote village. Located deep in the Irish countryside, where the grass grew emerald and sheep grazed beneath the moon, it hugged a lone hill just north of the Bellakip River and a little south of Old Head Beach. There was a single small market and a dirty tavern, and it was past these scarcely visited places that a backroad led to an expanse of farmland, overlooked by a tiny cottage made of stone and thatch. 

Alas, to most, the cottage was not there at all. 

One of Hermione's oldest friends resided there in secret, concealed by magic and protected by his own sheer brawn.

Unfortunately, the wards deterred Portkeys from guiding anyone inside, and thus, Hermione and her unwilling companion landed in a pile of muck.

_"Ugh."_

Aching joints, knotted stomach. Her ears were ringing too. Vague surroundings spun around her for several seconds, but even in her haze, Hermione knew that her companion was of the utmost importance. Through the spots of black and the navy semidarkness, she found her relief: A statuelike Hannah Abbott was lying beside her, indubitably even more furious and flummoxed than she was before. 

Unsure that she could yet trust the woman’s intentions, Hermione ignored her cramping muscles, found her legs, and drew her wand.

_"Mobilicorpus!"_

Hannah's form levitated. In the black air of midnight, she was a rigid phantom.

Thunder roared overhead just then, urging Hermione onward. Weaving around the bleating sheep and endless pools of mud, she slowed only to glance at Hannah. The spell propelled the girl through the threatening atmosphere. Seamlessly. Ceaselessly.

Of course, the weather was hardly Hermione's main concern. As soon as she released Hannah from the curse, she would attack anyone that stood between her and Neville Longbottom.

Regrettably, there was no Neville Longbottom left.

Rain began to pour and with wet locks clinging to her face, Hermione finally saw the cottage in the far distance, bathed in starlight and burping smoke as Hagrid's hut once did. She let out a sigh of relief and forged on, Hannah still at her side. In the cottage, there would be a warm bed to sleep in, which was, after a miserable day, exactly what Hermione needed.

Sadly, longing for sleep did not promise it. Hermione knew that nobody would rest well that night—not once Hannah learned of her late paramour's early end. After all, the death of Ronald Weasley tormented Hermione still, and unlike Hannah, she had the uncommon privilege of saying goodbye.

Ministry raids had driven most couples apart.

Neville and Seamus Finnigan were sent to camp in Epping Forest, leaving behind the women they loved. Hannah stayed at the Leaky Cauldron while Alicia Spinnet healed Cruciatus victims at St. Mungo's.

Only Alicia would see her beloved again.

Bill and Fleur lived separately too, despite the recent birth of their daughter. Some of the more involved professors even left Hogwarts to volunteer at Grimmauld Place, the Burrow, and the other Unplottable houses all around Britain and Ireland, breaking away from their commitment to the school.

For the cause, they had all chosen endless loneliness and an uncertain future.

But there was none lonelier than Hagrid.

With her myriad of responsibilities, Hermione was not sure when she had last heard from her childhood professor, let alone visited him in the East Hulltow cottage. She recalled snow upon the peak of Croagh Patrick.

According to her memo from earlier that day, it was the eleventh of July.

Poor Hagrid had been on his own, isolated from all but his beloved Bowtruckle, for at least five months.

She felt a pang of guilt as she raised her knuckles to the mossy, rot-stained door.

"Twice, once, thrice, twice. Twice, once, thrice, twice," she reminded herself.

Each of the many Order houses had their own unique knock meant to be used by welcome visitors. Few members of the Order knew them all, but as Hermione visited each and every one of them, she had memorized them perfectly.

_Knock-knock, knock, knock-knock-knock, knock-knock._

She was quite certain that she had done it correctly.

However, time bred doubt.

After a few moments, she was growing concerned, so she prepared to rap on the door again, but before she could, it opened, and she was faced with the tip of a familiar pink umbrella.

"Hagrid! It's me, Hermione!"

"Awfully late fer a trip to Ireland, _'ermione_."

"My business tends to run late quite often," Hermione pointed out. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to warn you ahead of time, but it's been a very long day and I have a lot of loose ends that need tying up, so if you wouldn't mind—"

"Now, you jus' wait a minute! You ain' goin' nowhere til yeh prove who yeh are!" Hagrid barked.

The wild look in his eyes was not foreign to her. Many times before, she had seen it in the irises of her friends—a darkness that only isolation could create.

"I—all right, sure—erm—Ron and I once bought you a copy of _Beasts of Beltane_ for Christmas . . . Harry and I helped your hippogriff, Buckbeak, escape execution . . . Your best friend in school was an Acromantula named Aragog—and—and Fluffy! Fluffy can only be put to sleep with music—"

"Well—well, that all may be true, but—but you could've learnt that, couldn' yeh have?" He jabbed her with the umbrella. "What was the name o' my dragon in yer firs' year?"

"Norbert," she said, matter-of-factly. "I was there when he hatched from an egg. Now, lower your weapon, _please_."

Apparently, her proof did not suffice. Hagrid pressed his lips together, almost like he was trying to decide whether or not an enemy could know such things.

"I—I brought company," she added.

"Comp'ny? Who?"

Hermione gestured Hannah, who was floating helplessly beside her. If it had not been for the flush of color in the blonde's complexion, she could have been dead.

Hagrid's large hand flexed around the handle of his unlikely armament and the blackness of fear faded into leaden confusion.

"Izzat Hannah Abbott?"

"Yes, unfortunately," said Hermione. "I just fetched her from the Leaky Cauldron."

"Well, what's wrong with 'er? Ministry tossers get to 'er, did they?"

"If you consider _me_ a Ministry tosser, then I suppose so." Hermione noted the furrowing of Hagrid's brow and elucidated, "I cursed her. If you'll let us inside, I'll explain everything."

Hagrid seemed skeptical, but lowered his umbrella, nonetheless. "Yeah, all righ'. Come on in . . . but lock the door behind yeh! There's a lad that comes through to check on the sheep and I swear he's been peekin' in the windas!"

"That's impossible, Hagrid. Muggles can't see Unplottable places."

"Unplot'able 'r not, that Muggle knows somethin' ain' quite right 'bout 'is land an' ain't no tellin' when he'll catch me comin' 'r goin'! He's always skulkin' about . . ."

"You shouldn't be _coming or going_ at all! You're _supposed_ to stay put."

"Yeah, well, I've gotta eat, don' I? The place might've been stocked up for someone o' normal size, but if yeh haven't noticed, I'm a bit above the average."

It had occurred to Hermione that the cottage may not be the best fit for him, but he was far too large to be seen somewhere as public as Grimmauld Place. Still, she should have had the sense to make some amendments. As he made his way down the narrow corridor, his broad shoulders brushed the eggshell walls, stuttering when they hit several holes where his frame had obviously busted through.

The Order had done so little planning for him. He was one of their oldest friends and among the greatest of heroes, and they couldn’t even find a place where he fit.

The portraits that once hung were gone too, likely more collateral damage from his incredible breadth.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I'll send someone out with more necessities. I don't know how soon it'll be, but—"

"Ah, don' worry 'bout it, 'ermione. I bin gettin' by jus' fine." He stopped in front of a wide doorway and gestured it with a jerk of his head. "If yeh jus' want to leave 'er on the sofa there, I'll get some tea started . . ."

With a nod, Hermione gently guided Hannah onto the old floral loveseat. Upon seeing the witch's legs hang over the armrest, she realized that it was also far too miniscule for her longtime friend.

Saddened by her own lack of forethought, she gave Hannah's frozen hand a squeeze and left her alone in the olive green sitting room. Just steps away was the kitchen, from which she could hear the clanking of the large dishes Hagrid had procured all on his own. The last time she had visited, she noticed the teacups were actually bowls that he had molded handles for with Piece-Together Putty, a rather clever invention of George's. 

Usually, the Order used it for mending wands, but in times of chaos, creativity was key.

As Hermione stepped into the kitchen, she was pleased to see that he was holding the very same handled bowls in his gargantuan hands. They were burgundy with tiny yellow daisies, the type of dishes she might have expected her parents to buy when she was many years younger. She was desperate to know such innocence again. Lamentably, she never would.

"She doin' all righ'?" Hagrid asked, chasing away her thoughts and closing one of the mangled cupboard doors. "Ain' nothin' too serious, I hope?"

"Erm—yes and no, really. It's serious but—but she'll be okay."

She pulled out one of the oversized chairs and did her best to get comfortable, yet the tabletop nearly reached her nose and the chair itself was hard and misshapen.

Still, she smiled politely.

"So," Hagrid began, pausing only to pick up the whistling kettle, "why'd yeh curse 'er, anyway?"

"Circumstances called for it. It was for her own good."

"For 'er own good?" Hagrid repeated. "What in Merlin's name was goin' on fer _that_ to be fer 'er own good?"

"Well, if I hadn't, she'd be swarmed by Aurors by morning. This seemed the preferable alternative."

He poured the flowered teacups full of boiling hot water, skepticism not only written in his expression but also in his stature.

"If that's the case, I'd agree with yeh, but wha' would they wan' with 'er, a lit'le thing like Hannah Abbott? 'Asn't 'urt a fly, that girl!"

"Well, maybe _she_ hasn't, but association matters, Hagrid. It matters a lot."

"Association? Association to who? Surely, they don' know she's with the Order!"

"No! Of course not, but—but her—her _relationship_ —" Hermione's voice cracked. "Oh God, Hagrid, I—I don't know how long it's been since we've had a day this bad. The last time must've been when—when _he_ died . . ."

_Rubble. A mangled body. Croaking words. Singed red hair._

"Oh, c'mon now, it can't be _that_ bad," Hagrid reassured her. More clanking came from where he was standing, but Hermione couldn’t bear to look at him long enough to know the source. "The only way it could've been is if we lost you, and beings yer sittin' right 'ere, we're in pretty good shape, I'd say."

"You don't understand! We—we tried something today. A plan. And it went _abysmally_ wrong. And now everything is all backwards and—and terrible and—and I don't know how much longer the Order has left after this. It—it could drive people to join the Ministry, Hagrid. It's _that_ bad."

Her humanity was showing again. Too long, she had quieted its roar.

"'Old on a minute there, 'ermione. Yer gettin' a bit ahead o' me with all this . . ." The ground rumbled as he crossed the room and set a cup of steeping tea in front of her. In his hand was his own, the steam diminishing into his beard. "What _exactly_ 'appened today, an' what's it got ter do with Hannah?"

"I'm sorry. It's just . . . there's so much to—to think about—so much to explain . . . I—I don't really know where to begin."

"Well, I ain' goin' nowhere, so why don' yeh take a deep breath now an' start slow, yeah?"

He blew on his tea and leaned against the table; it shifted in protest of his immense weight. 

Trembling uncontrollably, Hermione began.

"Erm—yeah. Yeah, all right. I erm—well . . . I suppose it started two days ago. N-Neville abandoned his post in the forest and—and he went to the Rook House. He—he had an idea. It was . . . a bit mad, but if we managed it, it would've changed the tides of the war. We might've won, Hagrid. It could've been over."

"Sounds promisin'."

"It was. At least . . . it seemed that way. I think—I think that we were all a bit blinded by the—the _reward_ of it all, so maybe we didn't weigh out the risks . . . We were careless, and—and Neville—he paid for it."

"Well, two days ain' a lot o' time to make a big decision now, is it? An' Neville—he volunteered?"

"No, it's not a lot of time," Hermione said, heatedly, "and he _did_ volunteer but it was a big enough decision the whole Order should have been involved. I asked but—but McGonagall and Charlie said time was of the essence. I didn't argue with them, and I should've. I should've told them it was _too dangerous_."

"Doubt it would've made much difference if yeh did, 'ermione. When McGonagall and Charlie got an idea, it seems to 'appen no matter what anyone else says." Hagrid dumped all too much sugar into his cup and stirred it. Loudly, the tiny bent spoon clinked against the edges of the ceramic. "So what was it, anyway? This big plan o' theirs?"

Hermione snorted, realizing how insane it sounded as she mulled over the words in her head. 

"Breaking into Dolohov's office."

 _"What?"_ Hagrid choked, spitting tea into his thick mustache. “You’re kidding!”

"I'm aware it's stupid."

"It's more than stupid! It's—it's reckless! It's madness!"

"I know!" Hermione sobbed. "We never should've allowed it but—well, honestly, the Minister had a very full schedule and we've been talking about our next move for _ages_. All the Aurors were supposed to be on a raid in Bannockburn and Neville presented the idea. It seemed like good timing. It just—it just wasn't."

"It was never gonna be good timin'!" Hagrid boomed. "A risk like that? And all over that bloody map, I reckon! The one that the _entire Order_ decided wasn' worth chasin' after?"

" _That_ decision was before they took Harry! We've been talking about ways to get that map ever since they hauled him off, so when Neville offered, it—" She sniffled. "It made sense. I'm _tired_ of watching my friends disappear. I'm _tired_ of having to go to work every day, wondering if I'll see one of them there being dragged into a courtroom or worse. McGonagall, and Charlie—I think they just saw a way out and—and maybe we all put too much faith in it. Maybe we shouldn't have, but—but _that's_ the way we learned to win wars. The sorts of things Harry and Dumbledore _swore_ on: courage, heroics, the usual _rubbish_ we end up turning to when everything else seems too difficult.”

"Rubbish? It's _far_ from _rubbish_! Look at ‘arry—"

"Harry's in prison, Hagrid. And if courage paid the way we pretend it does, Ron wouldn't be dead."

The indigo in Hagrid's face calmed to its natural shade. He reached out to pat her hand, and though Hermione smiled, she felt herself crack beneath his touch.

He understood. Maybe not fully, but in some way, he understood.

"Yeh know, Ron wouldn' like ter hear yeh talk like that . . ."

 _"Ron's not here,"_ Hermione said, darkly. _"He's gone."_

"He ain' _gone_. Yeh still got 'im in here," Hagrid said, pointing dramatically at the center of his chest. "And he wouldn' want yeh to give up. So we'll go get Neville. Just like we'll get 'arry. And then all together, we'll go after that sorry excuse fer a Minister and we'll teach that slimy—"

"Hagrid?"

"—coward of a—"

_"Hagrid."_

"— _evil_ —"

"NEVILLE'S DEAD, HAGRID!"

The rant died on his tongue.

"Dead? But he can't be . . . No! No, it can't be . . . Not _Neville_!"

"It’s true, Hagrid. He's dead. The Minister killed him himself."

Hermione hugged herself as she relived the horrific scene. It would haunt her nightmares forevermore—just like the rest of them.

"But—but why wouldn' they take 'im to Stafhelm? Like Harry! Like Arthur! It doesn' make any sense!"

"Because he's not Harry and he's not Arthur," she whispered, wiping her eyes. "As soon as they caught him with the map, they took him away—to—to the Red Chamber."

He gasped. "But that's—that's where . . ."

"I know what it is! I've been there myself many times, if you don't remember!"

"I—'ermione, I'm sorry—"

"He made me watch, Hagrid. He made me watch and he—and I—I didn't stop it. I just . . . stood there. I didn't do a ruddy thing to make it _stop_."

"Well, yeh couldn' 'ave, could you've? It would've put yeh both in danger!"

"I know," Hermione sniffled. "That's why I didn't but I—I still wish I would've. Because now, he's gone. He's gone and it was all for nothing!"

She kicked the leg of the table, but only managed to stub her toe.

"It wasn' fer nothin', 'ermione," Hagrid murmured. "You fight fer us every day. Just like Neville was fightin' for us. And now we gotta do right by 'im. That means we keep tryin'. No matter what, we 'ave—to—keep—tryin'."

"I—I guess. Actually . . . that—erm—that brings me to my next point . . ."

"And what's that?"

"I'm warning you, you won't like it."

Hagrid frowned. "All righ' then . . . Out with it, I suppose.”

Hermione cleared her throat. "Well . . . map or not, we have to get into Stafhelm. And without it, we have no way of knowing where the Minister's private entrance is—or any weak points in the wards."

"So we hafta find them," Hagrid deduced.

Hermione shook her head. "It's too risky. If we tried to make a Portkey without the enchantments in mind, we could die . . . And looking for the Minister's secret entrance would mean rummaging around his office—which undoubtedly has triple the security measures it did before."

Hagrid cracked his knuckles. "So what d'we do then? We can' jus' leave 'im there!"

"I know . . . Without the map, there's only one way in that I know will work. I pitched it before but it wasn't exactly the most _popular_ plan . . ."

"You don' mean . . ."

 _"Yes_ , _that_ one. I know it's not the best solution, but it's time to get Harry back. Even if it means involving people we don't necessarily care for."

"But we don' even know if we can trust 'im!" Hagrid exclaimed. "That boy's a menace! Always 'as bin and always will be! If it weren't fer him—"

"I know what he is and what he’s done, Hagrid. You forget you're talking to a Muggle-born." At last, she took her first drink of tea, but it was just as bitter as Hagrid's tea had always been. She resisted the urge to crinkle her nose. "He was going to pick a side eventually. We're just making him pick sooner than he expected."

Hagrid sighed and shook his head. "There's gotta be some other way. Somethin’ we ‘avent thought of."

"Not to be rude, Hagrid, but I'm not sure _we_ have thought of anything," she snapped, though she instantly regretted it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—it's just that a lot's been put on me recently, and I've thought about this nearly every second of every day for _months_ now . . . I talked to Charlie and McGonagall . . . and they agreed with me. We all decided this was going to be our next best option if Neville failed—which he did."

"And if it doesn' work? If _you_ end up in Stafhelm too?"

"It's the only chance we've got. After all, we're down two people now, and you're going to be quite busy with Hannah, so it might as well be three. Plus, we don't have anyone at the Leaky Cauldron anymore and _that_ loses us a lot of insight on what the Aurors are doing."

"Well, what abou' Laurel?"

"As if she'll speak to me after what happened today! You forget that every time one of you _disappears_ with me, the rest of the world thinks I murdered you."

Being the Minister's Dealer of Death was exhausting. Not only had she garnered unwanted notoriety among neutral parties and the noncompliant, but she also had troves of paperwork forced upon her—as well as the Minister's scrutiny.

Yet somehow, her friends simply forgot about it. Almost as though it didn’t matter.

As though _she_ didn’t matter.

"Sorry, almos' forgot abou' that . . ." Hagrid glanced at the opening to the hall. "Hannah gonna be 'ere for good, then?"

Hermione nodded. "For the foreseeable future, at least. As far as the world's currently concerned, she's gone—permanently."

"Aye, aye. Dealer of Death an' all that rubbish."

"I hate the name, but it comes with the territory. Speaking of which, I guess I better go tell her . . . The sooner I have _that_ conversation, the sooner I can procure my Portkey for the morning."

"Morning? That soon?"

Hermione gave him a forlorn smile. "The world can't wait for me to rest, Hagrid—as much as I wish that it could."

* * *

Back in the sitting room, Hannah Abbott lay motionless. She would have seemed a corpse if her eyes did not pinball about with each movement that Hermione made around her, but Hermione knew that the woman was lying in wait.

Prepared for the worst, the Dealer of Death knelt beside her friend and released her from the undeserving curse.

Immediately, Hannah lunged for her.

_"Incarcerous!"_

Struggling against her newly acquired bindings, the blonde shrieked and bared her teeth.

"How _dare_ you—"

"I'm _sorry_ , Hannah, but you have to listen to me! Neville—he's—"

"Dead, thanks to you!" she cried. "You _evil_ , _lying_ , self-righteous—"

"Things don't always go as planned, Hannah! If this was in my control, do you think that I would've allowed it? D'you think I would've just let something like this _happen_?"

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She missed Neville. She missed Ron. She missed Luna and Arthur and Harry and when all was right with the world—but mostly, she missed when she was not the enemy.

"If I could've saved Neville, on Ronald's grave, I would've. But if we want to win this war, sacrifices will be made, and I'm sorry, Hannah, but Neville was apparently just meant to be one of them."

Hannah's teal eyes flashed with rage.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"Shut up, Granger, and take my wand before you release me because I swear if I can get my hands on it, I'll _kill_ you."

Under normal circumstances, the Hufflepuff would not stand a chance in a duel against Hermione. Alas, the circumstances were far from normal.

"I didn't mean for it to come out that way, but if you want to make this more difficult than it needs to be, we _can,_ " Hermione spat. Effortlessly, she snatched the wand from inside Hannah's disheveled robes and waved it in front of her. " _That's_ why I'll be leaving it with Hagrid until I go in the morning."

Hannah was seething.

"On that note, welcome to Hickaby Cottage." Hermione tucked the confiscated wand into her robes. "I know it's small, but I hope you start to like it here. Hagrid will really like the company and it'll give you somewhere to clear your head through . . . well, all of this . . .” She inhaled. “Get as comfortable as you can. I recommend you stop with the struggling or else you'll just be sore tomorrow."

Then, despite her colleague's livid screeches, she stepped out of the sitting room and stumbled through the darkness to the spare room across the hall. There, she withdrew her own wand and wiped away the remainder of her tears.

Somewhere in the depths of her heart, there was a joyful memory. Even after all that had happened, there was some part of her that could remember when times were better. When Ron was alive. When Harry was safe.

It lived inside her somewhere. It had to.

She closed her eyes.

She fought through the rubble, and the singed red hair, and Harry’s screams. She dodged the Minister’s smirk and Neville’s burning body. She silenced Hannah’s accusations, and Hagrid’s anger, and— 

She found the sea.

The air was crisp with salt and the wind was whipping her hair in every direction. Somebody squeezed her hand. The fingers were familiar and calloused from spending months on the lam, running from the world as it was.

They had nearly escaped. Back then, she was so disillusioned that she thought they had.

If she could focus on that moment, and not everything that followed, surely she could manage to—

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

A sputter of blue light. It was gone in a flash.

Squeezing her eyes closed as tightly as she could, she thought of the hand again. The rough lines that fell so perfectly between hers. The fingernails he had chewed to the quick. The way he grimaced when she ran her thumb over his ever-present splinters . . . 

She inhaled, and through her brimming tears, she whispered, _“Expecto Patronum.”_

Her otter emerged, though it did not seem as jubilant as usual. It was duller—a ghost of its former self. The memory, as lovely as it was, would never be as happy as she wanted it to be. It was tainted by her inability to prevent his death and by the utter despair that hung around her like a dark cloud. Though it wasn’t entirely useless, it also felt pointless. Dwelling on the past always was, after all.

"Go to the Rook," she instructed, her voice cracking. "Tell the cat that I'm in need of arrangements. Tell the cat that I need to go to the dragon's lair."


	4. The Dragon's Lair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Becks for fixing my mistakes and Erin for being my cheerleader. Check out Becks's work here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katschako/pseuds/sweetestsorrows

Malfoy Manor was in an unthinkable state of disarray. 

The grounds, once featuring perfectly groomed wisteria and meticulously shaped topiaries, were now overgrown and riddled with the mottling of disease. Dead dragonflies covered the footpaths. Brown petals were swept away by the morning wind. Even the peacocks’ song had become a somber dirge, a mere phantom of their once mighty caw.

Alas, the gardenias had survived. 

They were the final whisper of aristocracy, the only semblance of dignity left in a garden of chaos.

In front of the great entrance, Hermione stood, a dirty, old trainer in hand. 

She dropped it and considered how odd it felt to be there. There was no one escorting her, no removing the wards. It seemed too easy. Too plebeian.

Too dystopian.

The Malfoys were stripped not only of their status, but of their sense of security too.

Hermione, though she was not allowed a vote, had been there when the new regulations passed—the first regulations that would rock the very foundation of pure-blood society.

Still, she could hear Elizabeth Macmillan’s squeaking voice. 

_"Today, with an overwhelming majority, we have passed several amendments to an existing set of laws, the Code of Magical Domiciles. Notable changes to the Code include the following: Dangerous magical creatures are hereby banned, even if the owners of the estate were previously approved for valid licensure; nextly, all residents must remove protective enchantments that may deter officials from entering a place of residence . . ."_

Due to the Malfoys’ entanglement in anti-Ministry affairs, Dolores Umbridge recommended that an official witnessed the removal of the manor's wards.

They sent the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. 

Unlike the common Aurors sent to other estates, the great Evangeline Fawley investigated every inch of the perimeter, as well as the hundreds of rooms and a half-dozen items she deemed suspicious—items Hermione later saw in her office.

But nobody questioned the artifacts that were missing from the Ministry inventory. They were too busy praising the woman that brought the remaining Malfoys to heel.

According to her statement, Narcissa was “compliant, but unfriendly.”

It was mere days after Lucius’s funeral.

His death had been a very public affair, one that was celebrated in the newspaper as "a day of triumph" and "a great win for the Ministry." The Minister for Magic’s only competition had been slain, and the British Wizarding World was expected to rejoice.

And they did.

The trial was one of the most widely spectated events in Ministry history, as well as one of the longest. For fourteen hours, Lucius Malfoy was interrogated by Death Eaters and the hungriest politicians wizarding kind had to offer. 

The Wizengamot was not what it once was. 

The Malfoys had been some of the first to abandon the Dark Lord during the Battle of Hogwarts, and unlike their colleagues, they had also avoided Azkaban. Naturally, there was envy among those that had not been so lucky. If Hermione had to judge by Narcissa’s forlorn stare, she suspected the woman knew what the ruling would be before the trial even began.

Narcissa stayed composed—until it was official.

 _"Given his recent charges and his_ colorful _history as a servant to the Dark Lord Voldemort, we sentence Lucius Malfoy, son of Abraxas Malfoy, to immediate death."_

Dolores Umbridge, who had overseen the trial alongside Rodolphus Lestrange, let out one of her sickening giggles. She had read the decision as though it were nothing more than an everyday announcement—a change in zoning legislature or a request for the next gala.

A small smile stayed pasted across her face, even as Narcissa Malfoy released a bone-chilling scream.

And that was the last time Hermione had seen the Lady of Malfoy Manor.

That was, until she knocked on one of the grand mahogany doors.

Almost immediately, they both swung open to reveal Narcissa, but in a way, she wasn’t Narcissa Malfoy at all. Rather she was a mere shadow of herself.

A pearlescent scar shimmered in the sun. 

Slicing across her left cheek, it might have been enough to blind Hermione to the woman’s protruding ribcage or clouded, sunken eyes. It might have even distracted her from her gaunt face or thinning mane.

But it hadn’t, and all Hermione could do was stare.

Narcissa puckered at the sight of her.

"Mrs. Malfoy! I—I thought—" Hermione cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, it's . . . It's lovely to see you."

"Sadly, Miss Granger, I cannot say the same for you—though I suspect you're used to that, considering your . . . _position_."

Narcissa folded her frail arms across her chest. 

She may have looked as ill as the dying wisteria, but she hadn’t lost an ounce of her tenacity.

"I’m not here on official business, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione clarified. “This visit is entirely off the books, I can assure you.”

Narcissa barked a mirthless laugh. "How reassuring,” she droned. “The last time a Ministry worker claimed they weren’t here on official business, they left me with _this scar._ ”

"Mrs. Malfoy, I—"

"What exactly _brings_ you here today, Mudblood?” she hissed. “Surely, the Minister hasn't sent you to do more _Auror work_ , has he? Since, as you so eloquently put it, this visit is . . . _off the books_ , you’ll forgive me for my questions, I’m sure.”

"Auror work—? No, no, I'm not here for anything like that . . . I was just—I’m sorry, _does Draco happen to be here_? Really, I came to see him—"

A pregnant pause filled the humid, summer air. Something feral lit up in Narcissa’s crystalline eyes, something that made Hermione preemptively reach for her wand.

"You're here for my son?" she asked, her tone deadly.

"To speak to him, yes," Hermione answered. "He and I—"

"If it's Draco you want, I'm afraid we'll be at a bit of an impasse, Miss Granger.”

"I think you misunderstand—"

"Do I? After what you people did to my husband—"

"Mother, it's all right."

The silky voice could only belong to Draco Malfoy himself. 

From behind Narcissa, he emerged, his pewter eyes lined with violet semicircles and his strong cheekbones protruding from deeply carved features. Hermione recalled him once looking just as stretched and translucent. Just as delicate and breakable.

It had been their sixth year in school.

If Narcissa Malfoy looked poorly, her son was rapping on the door of Death.

"Granger here has come to collect on an old debt . . . Haven't you, Granger?"

Hermione’s eyes pinballed between Malfoy and his mother, uncertain what the proper answer was.

She decided on the truth.

"That's right," she said, tightening the grip on her wand. "A personal debt. The Ministry has no idea I'm here."

Narcissa craned her neck. "And why haven't I heard of _this debt_?"

"As she said, it was personal," Malfoy intervened, lightly touching Narcissa's shoulder. "I'll be fine, Mother. Truly."

For a long moment, the woman loitered there, her lips pressed firmly together. 

Analyzing. 

Finally, she unfolded her arms.

"If you hurt my son, you will not leave this place alive, Miss Granger. Do I make myself clear?"

Hermione nodded. "Quite."

Lingering suspicion notwithstanding, Narcissa stepped aside. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. I'll try not to take too much of your family's time."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Granger," chided Malfoy. "We both know you wouldn't be here if this favor was small."

The doors clicked shut behind them, and Hermione could have sworn she heard Narcissa utter a spell she knew to be illegal. Nevertheless, she decided it was best to leave her Ministry persona outside, so she simply gave Malfoy a tight smile and took in his state.

What a state it was.

His neck-high robes hung loosely on his frame and his irises were glazed from restlessness. Dishevelment had never suited him well. It contrasted too sharply with his arrogance and rampant perfectionism, like a white pawn among a board of red kings and queens.

Was she staring? 

Scouring the foyer for a safe topic, she landed on the only thing she could find.

"I like the new painting,” she said, gesturing a rather gory canvas hanging upon the wall. Framed in gold, it appeared to depict the medieval witch hunts. 

"No, you don’t," he scoffed.

He was right. She didn’t.

She could feel Narcissa's eyes boring a hole into the back of her head.

"Come now, Mother, no need to worry yourself.” 

His voice quickly turned from ice cold to dripping in honey. Hermione always wondered how he made it seem so natural—as though his moods were a series of masks, always falling to the floor, only to be replaced with the next.

This mask was for his mother. She suspected he had no others, at least not for her.

“How about you have some tea? I'll join you once we’re finished."

Hermione fought her urge to turn around to see Narcissa’s reaction. Narcissa wore masks too, she noticed, but her true emotions were not so easily hidden. Her eyes gave it away. Malfoy—he was harder to read.

She nearly cracked him once—at least she thought she did, so many months ago.

It was probably just another mask.

“Tea sounds lovely, dear,” Narcissa lilted, interrupting Hermione’s thoughts. “I’ll be sure to leave the milk for you.”

“Thank you, Mother. I’ll be there shortly.”

Narcissa's heels clacked away, and Malfoy gestured the hall intersecting the grand foyer.

"Come, Granger. We can speak in my study."

She didn’t remember him having a study but it wasn’t exactly a surprise, either. Deciding that it was unimportant, she accepted the invitation and followed him.

Malfoy Manor had a tendency to swallow its visitors whole.

The interior, in spite of its troubling history, was always a sight to behold. The paintings and artifacts lining the hallway were probably worth tens of millions of Galleons, and she suspected the rarer finds were in much more private places than the many walkways. Part of her wished she could have stopped to appreciate them, but Malfoy's strides were long and fast and she struggled to keep up.

“How has it been at the Ministry?” he asked, not even bothering to turn and face her.

“The same as usual.”

“Spectacular, then.”

“That’s one way to put it.” 

Her shoes squeaked against the floor of white marble in her efforts to tail him—a noise that was apparently off-putting to one of his ancestors, whose portrait mumbled, "What an _awful_ , _loud_ woman!"

“I’m sorry,” she said, weakly.

The portrait scoffed.

The narrowing corridor was as long as those in Hogwarts Castle. With each step, Malfoy seemed to be walking faster, as though he were trying to run away from her, leaving her to be forever lost in the labyrinth of judgmental pure-bloods and misplaced Muggle art. It was dizzying in its extravagance, and with each clap of his foot to the marble, she wondered how lonely it must be.

"Malfoy?”

“Yes, what is it?” he sneered, his pace suddenly seeming even faster than before.

“Does your mother always answer the door?”

He spared her an irritated glance. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, it’s just . . . I—I thought . . ." She trailed off, suddenly realizing how rude she probably seemed. "Never mind."

"What? That it would be an elf?"

Hermione swallowed and jogged towards him again. His pace was impossible.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come across as rude . . . It’s just . . . Well, all the wizarding homes I’ve been in of this size . . . They all have a staff.” 

"You know as well as I do that servants would be ill-advised in our situation." They passed an open room with emerald walls and black crown molding. Apparently, it was not their destination, as he waved at an intersecting hall. "This way."

"Why would it—oh. The monthly interrogations."

"Yes, _the monthly interrogations,_ " he gibed. "My mother and I may be following the law, but that doesn't mean I want Aurors in here plucking my elves out to ask them how I take my tea each morning. Go left here."

The manor had always seemed a bit mazelike, but Hermione had never taken the hallways so far before. The last time she had visited the place, she and Malfoy were served afternoon tea in a small room with a piano and several artifacts—most of which she believed to be well-aged heirlooms. That room was far behind them now.

Back then, the grave of his father was still fresh, his mother refused to leave her bed-chamber, and the laws surrounding house-elves and Squibs had not yet been amended.

A year could change so very many things.

After nearly fifteen minutes of walking, they finally reached a set of double-doors at the end of the hall. Wordlessly, Malfoy opened them to reveal a room paneled from ceiling to floor in deep walnut, embroidered not with the usual priceless artifacts and portraits of pure-bloods, but with bookshelves carved with gargoyles and crude imagery.

One of the largest carvings was of a beheaded house-elf.

How terribly wretched.

Hermione knew there to be a library in the manor as well. Considering the study had nearly as many books as Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she could only imagine the breadth of the grander Malfoy collection.

If they were successful in their endeavor, maybe she would one day admire it in person.

"Well, this is impressive, isn't it?" she said.

"It was my father's. Mother wouldn't let anyone inside until just a few months ago." Malfoy shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "I suppose it's mine now, since she still refuses to come in here."

"Still?"

"If she had it her way, it'd be locked off forever. Only reason she didn't bury the ruddy key is because the Ministry wanted our family records."

Hermione's blood ran cold. "Wait . . . The Ministry asked for your records? _And you gave them to them?_ "

Malfoy chuckled, darkly. "As you know, they can be _very_ persuasive."

"Right . . . There isn't anything about—"

"What you did for me remains between us, Granger. You don't have to worry about a trail of parchment."

"Yes, of course . . . Erm—thanks.”

“No need to thank me. It’s definitely in my best interest.”

“Right . . . Erm—I _am_ sorry, by the way, Malfoy—about your father. It's a shame things ended the way they did."

A humorless half-smirk came and went. "People die, Granger. You should know that better than anyone." He approached the black desk, an enormous leather-top bureau with carvings just as beautiful and crude as those adorning the bookcases. "Besides, it's the living who truly suffer these days, isn't it?"

Smoothing the front of his robes, he plonked into the wingback chair.

It matched the desk perfectly.

"I suppose so. But maybe it doesn’t have to be that way," Hermione replied, calculatively.

"Ah. So you've come here with another one of your Order's grand schemes to fix things. Should've expected as much." He wove his fingers behind his head, bemusedly. "Tell me, Granger, what price do I have to pay for this one? A leg? An arm? My right bollock?"

" _No_ . . . None of those, hopefully— _and_ you won’t owe me any more favors." She picked at her thumbnail. "It really is a good plan, Malfoy. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was.”

"As much as I believe that _you_ believe that, I can’t say I’m convinced.”

"But you'll listen?"

"I don't have much of a choice now, do I? No matter your business, you're still with the Ministry." 

Hermione frowned. "I prefer that you think of me as a colleague."

"A colleague."

"Yes, Malfoy, _a colleague_. A colleague that's come to ask you to choose a side."

He snorted. "And which side is that?"

"Don’t be stupid." The bed of her thumbnail ached from all of her fiddling with it. "The Order needs training. And we need your help.”

 _"Training,"_ he repeated. 

“Yes. At least for a handful of us. And no one in the Order is equipped to teach the magic we need to learn, which is the only reason I’m even bothering to ask.”

"Surely the brightest witch of her age can figure it out herself.”

"No, I can't. There is only so much I can learn from textbooks and this—this type of magic is dangerous. I wouldn't dare learn it from anything other than a pair of practiced hands."

Flattery: the most universal language.

"Dark Magic, then," he deduced. "But you've certainly learned how to use Unforgivables? I imagine the Ministry made it a requirement for someone in your position?"

"Unforgivables aren't all that difficult, really. Not when your target is someone who deserves it." She thought back to lessons with the Carrows. "What I need is—it exceeds that."

An inkling of fascination replaced his usual scowl. 

"Okay, Granger, you've played your game long enough. What _exactly_ is it that you need help with?"

Hermione sighed. What she was about to ask of him was beyond anything she had ever asked of anyone before.

"When I tell you, do you swear not to repeat it?"

"You'll kill me if I do," he growled. "So I suppose yes, I swear not to repeat it."

"I mean it. What I'm asking you to do—it could—it could help us win. But if anyone discovers what we're doing—"

"I said I swear. Merlin, Granger, just get on with it." 

"This is _serious_ , Malfoy. It's not just another—"

"Just think about it, you rambling swot. If you didn't kill me first, what would I gain from telling the Minister or his thick little lackeys what you're doing? He'll kill me whether it's true or not."

Malfoy had always been more astute than most. 

"You're right. He will," Hermione said, sternly. "And he's going to keep killing everyone in his way until he has an army big enough to start killing Muggles too. The Order is not willing to let that happen."

"I’ve gathered that much. What I’m asking is _how_ ? With the whole Ministry behind him and everyone else scared enough to do anything he says? What can _you_ and your little friends _possibly_ do?”

The nail bed of her thumb was bleeding. Apparently, she had been picking at it more than she realized. 

"Well, we're going to hurt them where it counts," she replied, wiping the blood on the sleeve of her robes. "Do something they can't recover from."

"And that is?"

"Stafhelm. We're going to break into it." 

He cackled loudly, just as she expected him to. For a moment, he almost looked healthy, with rosy cheeks and deep, ringing laughter that came from the depths of his obviously empty belly. If he weren't laughing at her, she might have been relieved to see a trace of his humanity.

" _Stafhelm?_ Oh, that's rich, Granger! Who knew _you_ had a sense of humor?”

His roars went on for a long moment as he clutched his ribs and blinked back tears, clearly unaware that she was entirely serious.

A laughingstock. That’s what she’d been reduced to.

Finally, when she did not join him, his laughs slowed and he drew his pale brows together in confusion. Apparently, he had wholeheartedly believed she had come to him with a joke—a bizarre type of payback for the many years he tormented her in school.

She wished it was a joke, too.

"You're—you're serious? You really think you're going to break into _Stafhelm_?"

Slowly, she answered with a nod. 

"You're barking!" he exclaimed. "You _and_ all of your little friends, if they agreed to this!"

"We're _desperate_ ," Hermione corrected him. "And nothing will change if we don’t do anything, Malfoy. So go on and blame us while you and your mother sit here and do absolutely nothing, but we're not going to settle for the world as it is—and you shouldn't either."

"Excuse me, Granger, but my mother and I have _sense_. I'd rather settle for a world that I'm alive in than one where I'm not."

"So that's it, then? You're perfectly happy letting the Ministry get worse and worse until we're all either in prison, enslaved, or dead? That's low, Malfoy, even for you."

He rolled his eyes. "I'd like to see the Ministry go down just as much as you would, but if you try to break into Stafhelm, the only change you'll see is the number of living members of the Order. You'll go from barely any to bloody zero."

"Not if we do it right! With your help—"

" _My help?_ Granger, I don't think you're understanding me. I don't care what kind of favor I owe you. There is no way in hell I'm getting involved with this.”

"No, _you're_ not understanding _me_ . We need _you_. This plan doesn't work without you."

"Well, then you ought to thank me for taking it off the table," he scoffed. "When you wake up in the morning and you're still breathing, imagine I'm there saying 'you're welcome.'"

"Malfoy, please, just _listen_ to me—"

He stood and shook his head. "There's no use in begging, Granger. There's nothing you can do to get me to partake in your stupid scheme, so if you'd kindly take your leave, I'll be happy to absolve my debt when you come up with something _reasonable_."

He pushed in the chair and fixed the high collar of his robes, but Hermione wasn’t willing to give up. Not yet. Not when so much was on the line.

So she used her final bargaining tool.

"We'll protect your mother, you know!"

He stiffened. "What?"

"Your mother—we can offer her Order protection," Hermione elaborated. "We have Unplottables all over Britain—places she'll be safe, places the Ministry has no record of."

His attention was hers once more. She could feel her heart thudding against her chest wall as she analyzed the stakes of the rest of their conversation. One misstep, and the plan was foiled. One misstep, and the Ministry won.

"How do I know you aren't lying?"

Her nail beds were particularly interesting again. 

"Do you really think I could kill all my friends?"

Shrewd as always, Malfoy wagged a finger at her. For once, it was not a gesture of the rude sort. "You've been hiding them."

"Yes."

"And somehow _none_ of them have been caught?"

"When the Order protects people, we protect them well." Hermione leveled her gaze on him. "That's what we can offer your mother—and you. Protection with the full force of the Order of the Phoenix."

"And what makes me safer with your lot than here? We aren't breaking any laws."

"But how long until you are? It’s no secret they’ll do anything to discredit you and your mother, and at the rate they keep passing these ludicrous ordinances, they’ll have you in Stafhelm in no time.” She pushed her hair from her eyes. “You have to pick a side, Malfoy. Eventually, they're going to make you, and given your past, I imagine your prospects will be slim."

He seemed to consider it briefly, but then, with the second shake of his head, Hermione felt her insides lurch.

"I can't. My mother will never leave the manor anyway."

"But surely you could convince her! Malfoy, if she stays here—"

"Staying here is what she wants. She won't leave this place—not to live in some hovel with a bunch of people that loathed her up until it benefited them not to." 

"But—but the Ministry—"

"My mother is not wanted and my name has been cleared. Unless you find some reason to turn us both in, we'll be safe so long as we mind our business." He sniffed. "Aligning with the Order is something our reputation can't afford right now."

"So you'll do nothing, then?" she asked, disbelievingly. "You'll stay here until the Minister finds some reason to kill the both of you?"

"I'll protect my family the best way I know how."

"Oh, please! You aren't protecting anyone! You're a coward! Just like you've always been!"

He barked a laugh. "I'd rather be a coward than mad."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off before she could say another word.

"You best be going, Granger. My mother will start snooping if she finds we've been gone too long."

“But—”

“Do you really want her to hear what you’ve pitched today?” he snarled. “Do you really want her to hear what you asked of her only son? While you were a guest in her home?”

Blood pounded in Hermione’s ears.

Narcissa Malfoy was unpredictable. Unpredictable enough to kill her. Unpredictable enough to ruin everything.

Unpredictable enough to change her plans.


	5. The Two Lives of Hermione Granger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Becks for all her hard work on this chapter, and thank you to Erin for working tirelessly to find errors.

Hermione's bag slid off the tilted kitchen table and back into her lap. It was a weathered thing, the table. Made of oak and chipping grey paint, the thirdhand find was from a Muggle dump, summoned to the Rook House by a manic Xenophilius Lovegood. Quite convinced the harsh angle was the work of something he called a Bumberwuddle, he’d been raving about it for months.

Naturally, nobody had the heart to get rid of it.

So Hermione was forced to fix it instead.

_"Planuso!"_

The table groaned and shifted, breaking the six boards that failed to support its warping hind legs. Hermione grinned, satisfied with the charm, but before she could resurface to properly admire her work, a pair of boots entered the room.

They approached her with haste, followed closely by the squealing feet of one of the mismatched chairs as it dragged across the floor; it was the best of the three, yet somehow, it still lamented beneath the newfound weight, howling as the offender scooted back towards the table.

She was growing tired of meetings with Charlie Weasley.

"Sorry about that. Lost track of time. Xenophilius is . . .” He sighed. “Well, he's a bit of a nuisance nowadays."

"What? Oh, Xenophilius, right." Hermione quickly emerged from her place beneath the table, nearly hitting her head in the process. "Sorry, I was trying to fix it . . . It looks much better now, though, don't you think?"

Charlie knocked on the surface. "It does, actually . . . What spell did you use?"

"Just a simple Leveling Charm. I used to use it on Ron's plates when we were camping."

"Ah, that one. Tried it before, actually _—and_ about a half-dozen other things . . . Watch, it'll go slanted again."

Hermione frowned as the table sagged once more, proving his point. 

"I've never seen _that_ happen before."

"Don't know what in Merlin's name is wrong with it, but even George's putty can't fix the damn thing. Every time I try sticking it on there, it just sort of . . . _melts._ "

"Maybe it's been jinxed?” Hermione suggested, giving it a jiggle. “Maybe Xenophilius did it on accident?”

"I mean, _maybe_ . . . He _has_ been known for swinging his wand about . . . In more ways than one, unfortunately . . ." Charlie grimaced before taking in a sharp breath. "But enough about the silly problems around here . . . How'd your visit with Malfoy go?"

"Not well," Hermione admitted. "He said no."

"Of course he did. He's Malfoy."

"I _know_ he's Malfoy. But we aren't twelve anymore so I thought _—_ I thought maybe . . . " She reminded herself to breathe. "I thought maybe he'd agree to it, you know, with all things considered . . . "

Charlie cracked his knuckles. "You brought out all the bargaining tools, I assume?”

“Yes. He said his mother wouldn’t leave the manor.”

“Then you’ve done all you could do,” he said with a shrug. “No reason to beat yourself up over it, Hermione. We all expected this would be the outcome.”

"I'm not _beating myself up over it_ . . . but I _do_ think if I went back _—_ "

Suddenly, the sound of shattering glass came from the adjacent room. It was the doing of a distressed man _—_ one whose sanity had long slipped through his fingers and into the void.

Charlie was unfazed. "You were saying?"

" _I was saying_ I think I should go back there. When I offered his mother the Order's protection . . . well, long story short, he was _going_ to say yes. The only reason he didn't was because _—_ "

" _Mocking_ me now, are you?" Xenophilius bellowed. "Well, I'll tell you something, Mr. Crumple-Horned Snorkack, you aren't as sneaky as you think you are!"

Charlie rubbed his temples. "Sorry, he's at the time of day where he starts getting _agitated_ . . . Just ignore him."

"It’s fine,” Hermione said, waving him off. “So what d'you think?"

"What do I think of you going back to the Malfoys'? I think it's bloody mad."

Considering the stakes, his reaction surprised her.

"What?"

" _I said_ I think it's mad. We agreed to _one_ meeting and that's what we meant. _One_." He brandished a stern index finger, patronizing her as he often did to those of lower rank. "And don't even give me that look, Hermione. McGonagall's _with_ me on this. She's already said as much."

"I find that hard to believe," Hermione muttered.

"Frankly, _I don't care_ what you believe. You're here to follow orders, and the order I'm giving you now is to _move on._ "

"And what do you mean by _move on_?"

" _I mean exactly that._ Our main focus needs to be the overall goal now and nothing else. As you know, that means a lot of research on your end, so I need you to keep your head out of the clouds and start getting some solid information on that gateway of yours—and I _prefer_ you keep your findings away from Dolohov if you can help it.”

"Wait . . . _the gateway?_ ” Hermione echoed, angrily. “You're talking about ditching those ruddy shackles! You _do_ know that won't necessarily help Harry?"

“We’re limited on our resources now, Hermione. My hands are tied.”

“So that’s it then. Get rid of the shackles and let Harry rot in Stafhelm. _That’s_ your plan?” 

“Without those shackles, Dolohov is no more powerful than Umbridge or Parkinson or any of the other idiots that follow him. We get rid of the shackles, we take him prisoner, we don't put many of our own at risk. Simple as that."

"And what d'you propose we do when they come looking for him?"

" _I didn't say it was the perfect plan, Hermione,_ and I know it's certainly not _fast,_ but with our resources, it's the best we've got. Lestrange and Umbridge will have a row over who takes Dolohov's place, one will _hopefully_ have the other killed, and then the whole thing collapses, and we put in one of ours." 

He cringed as Xenophilius spat a curse at what was seemingly the loveseat. 

"We'll run into bumps along the way, but if we do it right, it'll work,” he continued. “As long as you figure out how to destroy the bloody things and as long as someone can nick them, we can turn this around and we can maybe, at some point, live the normal lives we've never quite had the chance to live."

Blood roiled hotly in Hermione's veins.

Harry, the man that had saved the entire Wizarding World, had very quickly gone from being their main concern to a complete nonpriority. One sour meeting with Malfoy, to her, was hardly a good reason to return to the botched mission from thirteen months earlier _—_ especially since that mission ended in death.

She opened her mouth to say her piece, but was expectedly interrupted.

_"Selashio!"_

The tearing of upholstery echoed and Xenophilius cackled in delight, proudly clapping his hands together. Apparently, he had won his match with the loveseat.

"Sorry, but _that_ is my cue to get his potion in him," Charlie declared. "So if you'll excuse me, I'll be bringing this to a close now."

"That's all, then?" Hermione asked, furiously. " _That's_ where you're going to leave it?"

He did not even bother looking at her. Instead, he pushed in his chair and said, "Figure out how to destroy those shackles, yeah? And let me know when you do."

"But wait, what if I _—_ "

 _"_ Meeting is _adjourned_ , Granger. _Go home_."

She was trembling with rage. Every reason she disagreed with him tickled the tip of her tongue, urging her to yell at him, to scream at him, to tell him she was going to save Harry no matter what.

However, she had been desensitized to reprehensible orders _—_ so she quieted her voice of reason, and in spite of her better judgment, she Disapparated.

* * *

Everything was brown. The houses were brown, the foot trail was brown, even the grass was brown. Funded by the Ministry of Magic, the Farnfurn compound consisted of nearly thirty houses, all a mere single room _—_ sans the grimy lavatories _—_ and disturbingly bare. No Muggle could find the place, and if an enemy were to try, they would not survive the consequences.

Hermione preferred her old tent.

She hiked up the trail, passing by the identical homes that were marked with their residents' names: Clearwater, Midgen, Yaddle. Strangely, she was one of the most important people that dwelled there, and she knew they loathed her for it.

Their opinions meant little.

She ignored the curtains zipping shut as she made her way to the top of the highest hill, somehow both relieved and crestfallen. There, plastered on a house just as brown and just as small as the rest of them, was her surname.

GRANGER.

Even though being a Muggle-born had its drawbacks, she had once taken pride in where she came from. However, the more she had to see it emblazoned upon the side of that house, the less proud she was, and thusly, she had charmed the Vow to the Ministry off the knobless, lockless door.

It was a small act of defiance _—_ one that had gone wholly unnoticed, but one that brought a small smile to her face whenever she thought about it. Sadly, the smile never lasted long, because to open that door, she had to say the passphrase.

_"Long live His Excellency."_

By rather poor design, the words opened every door on the property; she had learned as much when she once said it too loudly, exposing her half-naked neighbor to a group of visiting goblins.

They had pointed and gasped, and then they were sentenced to death for what Umbridge referred to as "a lewd act of gawking."

As Hermione pondered this cruel ruling, she stepped into her stark place of residence and turned to close the door.

It shut itself before she could.

The magic of the resetting enchantments pulsed through the air, sending a shiver down her spine and reminding her how utterly in control the Ministry was _—_ and how utterly out of control _she_ was.

_"Tsk, tsk, you are late! Tsk, tsk, you are late!"_

She winced and waved her hand at the complaining grandfather clock. It vibrated upon the wall as it always did when she countered the annoying charm, scraping away the drab wall paint and grinding its own gears. 

The previous resident had been on probation, and even though the Employee Housing Office removed the resident, they had not yet removed the clock.

_"Four late notices this month!" Dolores Umbridge had scolded at his trial. "You were warned of the terms of your probation, were you not?"_

His stammering earned him a lifelong stay in Stafhelm.

Hermione knew she was lucky not to join him. 

She had narrowly avoided probation no less than fourteen times, all thanks to the Minister for Magic.

Parkinson and Umbridge tried to charge her with insubordination over and over again, only for her loyalty hearings to be promptly canceled each and every time. There was no doubt that the two women were of great importance, but neither of them were killers.

Murderers, or rather, _talented_ murderers, were in short supply, and the Minister would not part with those willing to kill on his behalf.

As Hermione pulled off her shoes, her stomach growled. She made a face, a bit disgusted with herself for thinking of food at the precise moment that she contemplated homicide _—_ but it couldn't be helped. After all, she hadn't eaten since the night before.

Regrettably, she hadn’t had time to visit the ration-keeper.

She scoured her small kitchenette, hoping that she had saved a bit of pork from her most recent serving. Over time, her repetitive suppers had started bleeding together into a compilation of meat, bread, and peas.

After ripping open every cupboard, she only found the remainder of her weekly pumpernickel.

With a sigh, she seized it and crawled into bed, fully clothed and too exhausted to change.

She had a strange relationship with that tiny, miserable bed. On one hand, it was lumpy and itchy and riddled with bugs. On the other hand, it was the only piece of furniture that the Ministry allowed her to have _—_ a lesson she learned the hard way when she transfigured a sock into an armchair. Parkinson motioned for her immediate eviction, but in the end, she just had to write a personal apology to the Minister.

She bit into the bread and coughed. It was ash between her teeth, and as the crumbs fell down her front, she thought of Wales.

_"Haven't I told you not to eat in bed? You're getting crumbs everywhere!"_

_"Well, where else am I supposed to eat? It's raining outside."_

_"Oh, I don't know, Ron. Maybe_ the dining table? _Honestly, if you had to camp the way Muggles do, you wouldn't survive a day."_

How surreal it was that he was lost now _—_ forever just a piece in her collage of haunting memories. Like her friends. Like her parents.

Like Harry.

Solemn and furious and unable to sleep, she threw the bread at the wall, peeled off her paper-thin blanket, and padded across the room to her lavatory. The stench of urine filled her nostrils, for no matter which spell she used, she could never seem to banish the stink for good. Still, she ignored it, just like she ignored the squeaking shower handles, the moths on the curtains, and the harsh chill of the frigid spray.

Fascinatedly, she watched the day's dirt swirl down the drain.

_Cleanliness. Godliness. Rejuvenation._

As the grime disappeared, she felt a new sense of determination. A new electricity that ran from her head to her toes, urging her to do what was right, no matter what anyone else said.

The Dealer of Death may have followed Charlie's orders, but she was _Hermione Granger—_ and Hermione Granger had some persuading to do.

* * *

Impostors. All of them. Deep underground, they loomed on the ceiling, much like those that graced the London sky beyond _—_ yet different in every way. They glimmered around the faux moon, and by Hermione's preference, they encircled Venus's doppelganger.

The ivory planet was so close she could touch it.

As a teenager, she was entranced by the Atmospheric Charm in the Great Hall, but in her later years, she came to find it to be terribly inferior to what it was meant to represent. The thunder always sounded the same, the lightning never bore any consequences, and worst of all, the temperature never changed.

She missed the autumn twilight. She missed the forest in Wales. She missed campfires and hedgehogs and the sound of swaying leaves . . .

But most of all, she missed Ronald.

She would have sold her soul to wake up, just one more morning, to his loud snores. To scold him for stealing the blankets. To complain about him laying on her hair. To tell him "not tonight" for what felt like the hundredth time.

Unfortunately, grief would not fix the state of things, so she buried her emotions and signed her second memo of the day.

_Dear Arvell,_

_I have reason to suspect that Narcissa Malfoy is in possession of a cursed tea set. It is my recommendation that the affected items are immediately retrieved and brought to the Department of Mysteries. Thank you._

_Respectfully,_ _  
_ _Hermione Granger_ _  
_ _Department of Mysteries_

It was a lie.

Draco Malfoy would not change his mind unless the status quo shifted, and Hermione was ensuring that it did.

That was, of course, if she could bring herself to send it in the first place.

Unlike most Ministry employees, Arvell Boot quite liked Hermione. He was, for a wizard, utterly ordinary, and it was this utter ordinariness that once made him an asset to the Pest Advisory Board. He had a passion for paperwork, a verve for verbiage, and most importantly, he was willing to do the parts of the job that his colleagues loathed. Those colleagues took advantage of this, and when they went to pass their work onto him, they often called it "giving it the Boot."

Strangely, the joke had worked in his favor.

When Evangeline Fawley was tortured to lunacy, they needed a quick replacement, and inexplicably, Dolores Umbridge's pick was Arvell.

Hermione had taken advantage of this a number of times.

When she needed Malfoy's case file, he gave it to her. When she wanted to find Parvati Patil, he helped her. Impressively, he had even managed to provide her with Umbridge and Parkinson's many notes in her own personal record.

Arvell Boot was willing to do her a favor for nothing in return. 

All she had to do was ask.

That should have compelled her to send it, but it didn't.

Instead, she kept rereading her own handwriting, almost as though the intention might change if she regurgitated the words enough. Suspect. Possession. _Retrieved_. It was the sort of message she would expect from the likes of the High Inquisitor, yet somehow, it had been penned by her own hand.

Immoral acts weren't unethical if they were for the greater good.

Or were they?

The hesitation, she had convinced herself, did not come from the soft spot she secretly fostered for Draco Malfoy; she had no doubt that he could defeat every Auror in the department if his mind was set on it. It was the other member of his household for whom she worried: the frail woman that had once saved her best friend's life, the woman that had cleverly changed the tides of the war, the woman who was in every way an eternal enigma. 

Narcissa Malfoy teetered on the edge of madness, and a mishandled inquiry could easily be the final, terrible push.

To betray a woman who had once had the courage to deceive Voldemort himself _—_ it seemed like an entirely new low. Perhaps the woman detested Muggle-borns. Perhaps she was haughty and ostentatious and even cruel. Alas, she was, above all, a heroine of the war _—_ one that paid a price uniquely her own.

The fine line between ethics and ferocity were always so blurry in times of trouble.

Forcing Narcissa Malfoy out of her thoughts, Hermione resigned herself and pressed her wand to the purple memo. The parchment neatly folded itself and lunged for the extra-wide letterbox, eager to start its magical journey to the second level.

Already, she had sent two memos, and both were lies. That left her with a much more daunting task.

Pretending.

To paint the portrait of her other self was always a gut-wrenching chore, and it was even worse when she was under the harsh scrutiny of a recent execution. Every time she claimed to kill one of her old friends, her superiors became suspicious, looking for a reason to believe she was anything other than the woman she said she was.

 _That_ woman went by many names.

War heroine. Unspeakable. Dealer of Death.

Together, they all translated to the thing she least wanted to be: a dedicated employee of the Minister for Magic.

* * *

As the sun peeked through false clouds, Hermione cracked her knuckles and took in her surroundings. Open tomes. Scrap parchment. Colored ink. They were all subtle proof of her loyalty, so when the door finally opened, she continued the charade.

"You're early."

Hermione glanced at her watch. "You're not."

Smooth and haughty, the voice belonged to her fellow Unspeakable and longtime research partner _:_ a schoolmate, an academic, a Slytherin. They had started working for the Ministry at the same time, endured the same excruciating lessons with Alecto and Amycus Carrow, and then, after nearly a year of research under Senior Unspeakables, they were issued the same assignment.

He had been less than thrilled about it.

 _"Should she really even be on this case? Considering how close she was with the very man that put this stupid hole in the ground_ —"

_"Mr. Zabini, leave assignment decisions to me. If I had any reason to believe Miss Granger was unsuitable for this task, she would have been assigned to the Brain Room with the rest of your colleagues."_

Their professional relationship had been strained ever since.

"I _would've_ been here on time, but your friend, _Arvell Boot,_ pulled me aside the second I walked into the building. You wouldn't happen to know anything about _that_ , would you?"

"That depends,” Hermione answered, evenly. “What did he have to say?" 

"Oh, you know, his usual song and dance," Blaise scoffed, adjusting his already-impeccable necktie. "'Arvell Boot, former member of the Pest Advisory Board, current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and presently _—_ '"

"' _—_ at your service.' Yeah, I swear he practices _that_ one in the mirror . . . What else did he say? Anything interesting?"

"I don't know, Granger," he said, dramatically pulling out his chair. “What exactly might Arvell Boot want to talk with me about for nearly _forty-five minutes_ first thing in the morning? _Anything interesting_ come to mind?"

"How should I know? You're the one that met with him."

Hermione innocently pointed at a line in one of her open books.

_Pretending._

"Oh, come off it!” he spat, calling her on her bluff. “You ordered a raid on the bloody Malfoys! That's why you're here so early, isn't it? So you could make sure it made it to his desk before he got in!"

With a confident shrug, Hermione dipped her quill. 

"I was given information from a fairly reliable source. I simply took it to the party that's best suited to handle it. Now, if you have a problem with that _—_ "

"And _who_ was this source, exactly?" Blaise demanded. "And what did you do to them that would make them want to snitch?"

"Well, _if you must know_ ," she said, scribbling down something about doxy eggs, "it was Hannah Abbott. She told me on Friday."

"Hannah Abbott? That woman that you just bloody killed?"

Hermione groaned and dropped her quill, making an inky mess all over her meaningless notes. 

"So you already know."

" _Of course,_ I already know! _Everybody_ knows!" Blaise hissed. "Between that and the Malfoy raid, you're a bit of a hot topic in the Atrium _—_ and _not_ in the good way."

"What're people saying?"

"Lots of things . . . Something about the Leaky Cauldron . . . You had an attitude with Jonathan Bragwit . . . Someone said something about a dragon? Half of it seemed like rubbish, really . . . But what I _do_ know is that Parkinson was bloody livid."

Hermione massaged her temples.

Pansy Parkinson was the last person she wanted involved.

"She was?"

"Nearly killed Belby trying to summon a stack of papers this morning, so she certainly wasn't happy about _something_." He tried rubbing the stress from his face. "Look Granger, I don't care what kind of messes you get yourself into outside of work. If you want to go around murdering your little friends to satiate your perversions, be my bloody guest, but when you start bringing attention to yourself _here_ , that affects _me_ , and _then_ , we have a problem. Do you understand?"

Hermione glared at him. "You’ve killed your friends too, Blaise. Don’t try to act like you’re _any_ better than I am.”

“I told you not to talk about him,” Blaise bit out. “I told you _never_ to talk about him.”

“Fine. We won’t. But just so you know, the Minister killed her boyfriend. As soon as she found _that_ out, all those Aurors she serves were going to end up hurt _or_ _worse_. _"_

"And you honestly thought _Hannah Abbott_ could take on a dozen Aurors?"

"Those Aurors drink in her pub,” Hermione said, matter-of-factly. “It would've been all too easy to poison them."

"Oh, I have no doubt that's what you wrote in your report," he posited dryly.

"Of course I did. Now if you'll excuse me _—_ ” She hid her useless notes. “ _—_ I have work to do. If you need me, I'll be in the Pensieve Room."

"Did you collect a new memory?"

"No, I'm looking at the trial again _—my_ memory."

"You mean the one we've examined _at least_ twenty times?" Blaise bemoaned. "Do you _really_ think you're going to find something new?"

"I'm being thorough. Maybe you should try it sometime."

He snorted.

"Great tip, Granger. Next time I kill an innkeeper and send Aurors to stage an unnecessary raid, I'll give it a go."


	6. The Trial of Arthur Weasley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Erin and Becks for all their hard work going over this chapter.

Hermione sat down beside the ghost of her past. Thanks to numerous glamour charms and beautifying potions, her former reflection looked well-composed: professional enough to avoid later interrogation, but casual enough not to draw unwanted eyes. Hope had been hard to come by back then, always slipping through her fingers like loose sand on a windy day. Though she hadn’t known it at the time, she would be left with mere grains.

That was the trouble with hope. Even when there was too little of it, it could be blinding.

"You are bouncing like a bullfrog."

Viktor Krum's thick accent had never waned, despite living in England for several years. He was pointing at the grey leg that blurred with each movement, worry dancing in his dark pupils and hints of longing in his tone. 

Hermione's memory frowned and, as inconspicuously as possible, she pulled out her wand and pressed it to her thigh.

A small hiss escaped past her teeth and the bouncing stopped.

"Can't wait to see this traitor get the death sentence," someone muttered as they climbed the nearby stairs.

Knowing there would be no consequences, Hermione shot a jinx in the woman's direction. It passed right through her target, and through several tall hats before finally hitting the wall and dissipating into a cloud of white smoke. She had jinxed that same woman many a time, and it was just as cathartic as ever.

"That voman, she is rude."

Hermione watched her memory turn to Viktor, knowing well that she was offering a small smile and her hand. He took it and gave it a friendly squeeze _—_ one that some part of her wished she could feel again.

"Stand!"

Everyone in the courtroom obeyed the barking Auror in unison, fixated on the Wizengamot members as they filled their seats accordingly. Corban Yaxley was last, and as soon as he found his place, the most important members made their dramatic entrance.

One was dressed in black like the rest of them. The other, in pink.

"Bow before the Chief Warlock!"

Hermione did not budge, opting instead to stare at her memory in disgust as she begrudgingly bowed. Following Ministry orders always made her feel sick, but somehow, it was worse to observe herself so many months later.

She was, after all, pledging fealty to evil.

The Chief Warlock, former Death Eater and known murderer, glared over the podium before lowering himself into the high-backed chair. At his left, Dolores Umbridge stood, her painted-pink lips pulled into a smirk.

"Be seated!"

Her memory let go of Viktor's hand and smoothed her robes to sit. Back then, she had barely noticed the concerned look that he had given her, but now, each time that she entered the memory, he was all she saw. How his brow furrowed. How his lip curled downward. How, as he reached out to pat her knee, he mouthed, _"It is okay, Herm-own-ninny."_

Forcing another smile, the memory took his hand once more.

"Bring forth the defense!"

As Umbridge leaned in to whisper to Lestrange, Hermione's former self scooted closer to Viktor. She remembered how warm he had been, how comforting he was _—_ and how wrong she felt for thinking so.

_"Psst!"_

The memory whipped around, and so did Hermione. Blaise Zabini was making a crude hand gesture, clearly referencing her and Viktor and something very crude that the two of them had never done. Eloise Midgen stifled a snicker with the back of her hand.

They were interrupted by the clinking of iron.

Manacled by the neck, ankles, and wrists, Arthur Weasley shuffled slowly behind the two Aurors leading him into the courtroom. One was a tall, bulky woman that Hermione didn't recognize. The other caught her memory's attention and winked.

She loathed Jonathan Bragwit for many reasons, but that moment was near the top of the list.

"Keep it moving, Weasley!"

Hermione didn't have to look at Arthur to know that he was examining the audience. In fact, she made a point not to, for the heinous scene never failed to make her stomach lurch.

"Where's my family?"

The bulky woman prodded Arthur's cheek with her wand. "We _said_ to keep it moving!"

"But _—_ but my wife, my kids, they aren't here _—_ they wouldn't _—_ watch your wand, will you?"

"Move your arse and I'll move my wand."

"Well, you can threaten me all you like, but until I know my kids are safe _—_ "

"Weasley, don't make this harder than it has to be," Bragwit cut in. "Just a few more steps, yeah? Don't be stupid."

" _Stupid?_ If it's stupid to want to know where my family is _—_ "

The woman leaned in and whispered something in his ear. Whatever it was, it made him fall silent.

"Arthur Weasley," Rodolphus growled, tapping his fingers menacingly against his podium. "How does it feel to be in chains?"

While the room's many former Death Eaters cackled at the inquiry, the more professional members of the Wizengamot seemed shocked by it. 

Umbridge sensed the tension.

" _Ahem!_ Thank you, Rodolphus, I'm sure I can take it from here."

Yaxley and Macnair scowled.

Ignoring them, Umbridge marched towards Arthur, her pink heels clacking loudly and a wicked gleam in her eye. She was a predator of her own breed. While the Minister was all curses and claws, she was composed, thorough, and completely ruthless.

In the courtroom, there was nobody more dangerous.

"Mr. Weasley!" she began. "You are here before the Wizengamot today as you have been charged with multiple crimes, namely malicious theft, attempted destruction of Ministry property, and unlawful entrance to the Department of Mysteries. Do you understand?"

Arthur's chains rattled as he attempted to shift in the spotlit chair. 

"Well _—_ well, actually I _—_ "

"He understands," Rodolphus grunted.

An amphibian grin stretched across Umbridge's face _._

"Very good. So, Mr. Weasley, how do you plead?"

Hermione glanced at her memory, who was clinging onto Viktor's forearm. While her past leg was still motionless, she noticed her own was bouncing more ceaselessly than ever.

"Well . . . considering I don't know anything about _any_ of that, I suppose I plead not guilty."

The buzz that followed filled the room. Cameras flashed; gasps came from the audience; even the Wizengamot was perplexed by the news. Arthur Weasley, despite the overwhelming evidence against him, was claiming to be innocent.

Rita Skeeter seemed particularly enthused.

"Not guilty?" Umbridge repeated, appalled. "You're sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure! Why would I admit to doing something I didn't do?"

Umbridge sighed. "Very well . . . I suppose we'll be doing this the _hard_ way then . . . Don't say I didn't warn you, Arthur. I never wish the worst for an old friend."

 _"An old friend?"_ Hermione echoed, crossing her arms. "Oh, bugger off you miserable, old toad!"

It was one of her more tame interjections.

Umbridge, not having heard the present Hermione, went on to ask, "Where were you on the twentieth of June, Mr. Weasley? Do you remember?"

The press collectively leaned forward.

"A-are you joking? I _—_ I was _here_ on the twentieth," Arthur replied, confusedly. "Dolores, you _saw_ me. We had a glass of wine with Boris and my son!"

"Ah, we did, didn't we? But _after that_ , Mr. Weasley. Where did you go _after_ that?"

Hermione longingly watched Viktor whisper words of encouragement to her memory. She had been too distracted to hear him properly back then, and now that she couldn't recall what he had said, she wished that she'd listened more closely.

"Er _—_ well . . . my son and I went to the fountain . . ."

"Yes, _and_?"

"And I remember . . . I remember that Abbish had a _superb_ hat. Blue with all kinds of little spinning planets orbiting about. I really was quite taken with it . . . I meant to ask him _where_ he got it, but I _don't_ think that I did . . . You know, _actually_ , maybe I did later in _—_ "

"Enough about Abbish's hat!" Umbridge barked. Almost instantly, she relaxed and forced a smile. " _After_ the fountain, what did you do? You went somewhere, yes? Somewhere . . . _notable_?"

Arthur didn't respond.

"Well?" pressed Umbridge. "Where was it?"

He shook his head, sadly. "I haven't the foggiest, I'm afraid. I was standing there by the fountain, watching Jupiter move around Abbish's hat . . . It was quite dizzying, really . . . Next thing I knew, I was in a cell in Stafhelm."

Umbridge's nostrils flared. " _Clearly_ there is nothing _illegal_ about watching Abbish's hat, so please try and _think_ , Mr. Weasley. I would prefer not to resort to alternative methods of questioning you, but if I must, _I will_."

"And if you did, you'd find nothing! I don't remember anything after the fountain. I mean, I _had_ gone quite heavy on the drink _—_ "

" _Heavy on the—excuse_ me _,_ Mr. Weasley, but you _do_ understand what you stand accused of? These crimes are _very_ severe, and if you are found guilty . . . Well, let's just say it will be quite a shame for your family . . . Though maybe not _—_ " She gestured the room at large. "Considering they _do_ seem to be . . . _absent_?"

"Yes, well, I don't think that they _chose_ to be absent," Arthur said.

She tilted her head, curiously. "And what do you mean by _that_?"

"Well _,_ I _—_ erm _—_ I think _—ahem—_ surely, if they could've been here _—_ "

"So there's no reason that they may not want to support you today? No reason at all?"

Arthur whimpered.

"Pity . . . This must be so _difficult_ for you without them.” She then turned on her heel and sharply announced, "The prosecution calls Eloise Midgen to the floor!"

Hermione mirrored her memory in whipping around to watch Eloise _—_ once a sweet, quiet girl _—_ walk down the stairs with nothing but bad intentions. Her unusually large feet sounded against the marble floor, and her shame must have been consuming her, for she was far too interested in her toes.

"Miss Midgen," Umbridge started. "Can you please tell us what you recall from the evening of June twentieth?"

Eloise wrung her hands. Hermione wanted to wring her neck.

"W-well, I was in the Department of Mysteries to _—_ to erm _—_ to schedule some meetings for the er _—_ the Minister," she lied. The only reason she ever visited that level was to flirt with Reginald Clearwater, the Head of the Department and a man old enough to be her grandfather. "That's when I _—_ I saw . . . him."

"And who is _him_ , dear?"

"Er _—_ M _-_ Mr. Weasley. He was _—_ erm _—_ he looked _terrified_ , actually . . . Then I saw the shackles in his hands _—_ not normal ones, not the ones we use . . . I wasn't _—_ I didn't know what they were, but _—_ but he acted strange _—_ like he was doing something he wasn't meant to be doing . . ."

"These shackles . . . Can you describe them?" Umbridge asked, swiftly.

"They were made of . . . It _—_ it appeared to be s-silver, but I can't be sure . . ."

"They _appeared_ to be silver," Umbridge repeated, wagging her finger at the Wizengamot. "And what of the quality of this silver? Did they seem to be . . . goblin-made?"

"That's not allowed! She's putting things in her head!" Hermione shouted at the memory, all too aware that it would do no good.

"Well, I'm not a goblin, so I can't be sure _—_ "

"But if you had to guess?" Umbridge intervened. "If you had to put gold on it, would you say they were or they weren't?"

Hermione, still fuming, glanced at her memory. The grey figure was clenching her teeth, not even able to relax as Viktor stroked her knuckles with his thumb.

"I'd say they were," Eloise decided. "If _—_ if I had to guess, yeah, I would _—_ I would think that they were . . . Goblin-made, I mean."

"She wouldn't have said that if you hadn't led her on, you stupid, pink hag!" Hermione bellowed.

Nobody reacted.

"And after you saw him? What did he do?"

"Well he _—_ he _saw_ that I saw the shackles . . . and I _—_ I don't think he was going to do much of anything but when he _—_ when he caught my eyes . . . that's when he _—_ " She kicked the floor. "He _—_ "

"He _what_?" Umbridge urged.

Eloise took a breath that was so loud Hermione heard it from her place among the audience. Many onlookers whispered to each other, wondering if the unlikely woman was about to seal the fate of Arthur Weasley.

Rita Skeeter noisily fumbled with some parchment, and several other reporters followed suit.

"He _—_ he pulled out his wand," Eloise said. "I thought he was going to _—_ to attack me, but he didn't. Instead he _—_ he turned his wand on himself."

Umbridge bent to Eloise's level, her hands cuffed behind her back and false concern in the lines of her face.

"And he used _which_ spell, dear?"

Eloise hesitated, and if Hermione didn't know better, she might have thought she was regretting her stance.

"Obliviate," she finally said. "He Obliviated himself."

At first, Umbridge seemed surprised, but within seconds, she had pieced the puzzle together.

"He Obliviated himself!" she announced. "Knowing good and well what he did for the rebels, he _Obliviated_ himself for their cause. A slight against the Minister unlike _any_ we've seen before." As murmurs ran rampant among the Wizengamot, she turned back to Eloise. "After that, Miss Midgen, what happened? Did he do anything else so disturbing? So _treasonous_?"

"Erm _—_ w-well, Reginald _—_ I _—_ I mean Mr. Clearwater _—_ "

"The Head of the Department of Mysteries? _That_ Mr. Clearwater?"

"Y-yes, that's the one," Eloise confirmed. "H-he Stunned him _—_ Mr. Clearwater Stunned Mr. Weasley, I mean. H-he didn't stand a chance, really. Mr. Clearwater _—_ he _—_ he's quite brilliant with a wand, you know . . ."

"And _after_ he was Stunned? What happened then?"

Eloise shrugged. "Then the Aurors came . . . Two of them took him away and another accompanied me back to Farnfurn."

“And that was it?”

“Erm—yes. That was it.”

The roar of public opinion had overtaken the court. Quills scratched. Death Eaters chuckled. Even Umbridge, who detested an unprofessional crowd, let out a girlish giggle.

Arthur Weasley was going to be put to death and the entire room knew it.

"I believe that will be all, Miss Midgen." As Eloise went back to her seat, Umbridge stepped out into the center of the room and circled Arthur. "I, myself, can confirm that Mr. Weasley _did_ slip away from the party. _However_ , the charges are great and our laws are _very_ fair, so I do believe it is important we bring in an _unbiased_ witness . . ."

Before she even finished the announcement, a raven-haired woman stood and began her descent from the fourth row.

"The prosecution calls Pansy Parkinson to the floor."

Pansy shouldered Rita Skeeter on her way to the center of the room, causing the older woman to spill ink down her front and emit a bone-chilling screech. Discreetly, Pansy flicked her wand at her side, and Rita was silenced.

"Thank you, High Inquisitor Umbridge," Pansy gushed. "As many of you know, I'm Pansy Parkinson. Head of Ministry Affairs, Hand of the Minister. But beyond titles, I want the best for both the Ministry and _all_ of its employees, _including_ Mr. Weasley."

Hermione scoffed.

"And because you want the best for him, you will give an honest account of what happened on the night of the crime?"

Pansy nodded. "Of course, High Inquisitor." With perfect posture, she continued, "As we all know, June twentieth was the annual gala in honor of our Minister's inauguration. To spare you all the unnecessary details, it was nearly eight o' clock and we had already done quite a lot of imbibing when the cake was finally being cut. Anybody that's worked here at the Ministry knows that our talented elves and Squibs make the most _divine_ white cake, so I was a little troubled when I noticed that Mr. Weasley didn't join us to eat it."

"You asked him to come get a piece, though, didn't you?" interrupted Umbridge. "Please correct me if I'm misremembering."

"No, High Inquisitor. Your memory serves you well. I did call to him, as I wouldn't want anyone to miss out on the entire staff's most favorite treat. On that note, let's hear it for the help's famous white cake, yes?"

Several audience members clapped. Hermione wanted to vomit.

"You are quite right about the cake, Miss Parkinson. It _is_ scrumptious _—_ but let's get back to Mr. Weasley. Did he come along as you asked him to?"

"He said he would be just a moment, as he was feeling a bit hazy from the drink," Pansy explained. "I offered to get him a member of the Healing staff, and he agreed, so I left him there by the fountain as I searched for Betsy Thornbrickle or Errus Hoffing. Unfortunately, by the time I came back with Betsy, Mr. Weasley was gone."

"And how much time had passed? Minutes? Hours?"

"I don't know precisely," Pansy replied. "Ten minutes, perhaps? It wasn't terribly long, but it _was_ long enough for him to commit the crimes in the Atrium."

"So you're positive that he left the room? He wasn't just . . . somewhere else? By the buffet, maybe?"

"I'm positive that he left," Pansy said, dramatically, reaffirming Hermione's suspicion that her part was scripted. "I looked _everywhere_. He didn't come back, either. Honestly, I was a little worried about him."

 _"He didn't come back,"_ Umbridge emphasized. "Thank you, Miss Parkinson. I think that will be all."

Even though Umbridge was motioning at Pansy, she was addressing the audience.

As Pansy sauntered back to her seat, murmurs whirred and members of the Wizengamot shook their heads. Rita Skeeter didn't even bother cleaning up her acid green robes; instead, she wrote in a flurry.

"The Wizengamot will now discuss this case," Rodolphus boomed. "Remain seated while we do."

Hermione watched her memory break the charm with an anxious jiggle of her leg. She remembered how she felt back then as the Wizengamot shuffled out. Deep down, she knew they'd already made a decision.

They were gone for a mere five minutes.

" _Ahem!_ _AHEM_! The Wizengamot _—_ "

But before Umbridge could finish her thought, she was interrupted by the voice of someone _much_ louder.

"Granger! _GRANGER!_ "

Suddenly, Hermione was being pulled violently from her own memory. In the distance, she heard Umbridge say, ". . . and unlawful entrance to the Department of Mysteries . . . to capital punishment . . ."

Alas, she didn't hear the rest.

Into the present, she spiraled, and it was as she reentered her body that she felt metal around her wrists.


	7. Courtroom Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Becks as always, for picking this apart, as well as Erin for being an avid supporter, and the Harry Potter Writers' Guild on Discord. This story is what it is because of you all. Check out Becks's AO3 here. https://archiveofourown.org/users/katschako/pseuds/sweetestsorrows

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

A steady trickle of blood leaked sluggishly from Hermione's wrists. 

Fresh rivulets carved new crimson paths through the encrusted trails that already marked her skin, before spilling to the floor and into the uneven grooves between the cobblestone. The rivulets amassed into a dark river of garnet, with branching tributaries that webbed out in a mocking imitation of the veins that ran to her pounding heart.

A feast for flies.

They descended down upon it. Just like the pure-bloods in the Second Wizarding World. Just like the remnants of the regime. Just like the Malfoys and Blaise Zabini and the newspapers.

_The newspapers._

She would inevitably be in the headlines again. As yet another part of her complicated diguise, it was good for the cause, but the names they branded her with echoed in her skull. They were drilled into her like an inescapable curse, reverberating in her mind with every waking breath. 

The Murderous Mudblood. The Minister’s Muggle-born. 

Loyalty hearings often made the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ , and because of her notoriety, Hermione was sure her face would grace every wizarding publication in Britain.

For once, she was glad half of them had been barred.

“Could get used to seeing you all chained up like this, Granger. If they decide not to put you away, maybe I’ll take you out sometime.”

“I’d rather go out with a troll.”

“Oh, I know. _How_ long was it you were with Weasley?” Bragwit jeered. “I mean, _before_ he turned up dead.”

“Longer than any woman would ever be with _you_. Now if you don’t mind, could you keep it down? Your voice makes me want to vomit.”

“And how exactly is that _my_ problem?”

“Because if I do, I’m aiming for your shoes.”

Hermione expected him to scowl at her. She expected him to insult her or tighten her manacles or shoot her a glare. What she did not expect was for the Auror to reach out and lightly brush her errant fringe from her face.

Somehow, it felt worse than anything she could have imagined.

“I wouldn’t be so cheeky if I were you, Granger. One snap of my fingers and I’ll have your head caged tighter than a goblin’s coin purse.”

“And how tight _is_ a goblin’s coin purse, exactly?”

“I _said_ to lose the cheek!” he warned. There was something feral in his eyes, something hungry. “Maybe you aren’t afraid of the cage, but I suspect you _are_ afraid of the Minister, and if you don’t want your entrails smeared across the Chamber walls, I suggest you treat me with a little more respect.”

“And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Let’s just say you’re not the only one speaking at your trial today,” he answered, slyly. “All it would take is one—little—fib.” He punctuated each word with a flick to her nose.

“ _A little fib_? A brilliant plan, Jonathan, truly. When they inevitably fill me up with Veritaserum, I’m sure you’ll be quite pleased with it.” She basked in his paled expression. “Parkinson and Umbridge may feel a certain way about me, but eventually, your testimony _will_ reach the Minister, and I think you’re well aware of the fact that he much prefers _me_ over _you_.”

Suddenly, Jonathan Bragwit was not so talkative.

For fifteen minutes, silence lingered, interrupted only by the white noise of her trickling blood and the rats scurrying about the corridor. If she hadn’t known better, she may have thought her prosecutors had forgotten about her.

What a silly notion.

The double doors burst open, sending the rats bolting for their hideaways, but nobody came out.

Instead, she and Bragwit were greeted by a familiar voice. 

“Bring forth the defense!”

The Auror that made the command was nowhere to be found, but that detail didn’t seem to bother Bragwit. All too eagerly, he seized Hermione’s upper arm and wrenched her into the sea of flashing lights.

_Click. Click. Click._

Cameras blinded her momentarily, but as the stars in her field of vision dissipated, she took in her dystopian surroundings.

The clinking chains echoed against the great domed ceiling, which was the grandest feature of the small room. Courtroom Four, unlike its nine counterparts, had only six rows for an audience—six rows that were tightly packed with her colleagues, her enemies, and the press.

_Click. Click. Click._

Bragwit led her to the center of the room, and though she was blind once more, she could feel the heat of magic washing over her as he forced her into a narrow seat and chained her to the armrests.

When she dared to look, she was bathed in light.

_Click. Click. Click._

Members of the Wizengamot winced as the flashing cameras shone in their glassy eyes. However, there was one person who was motionless, one person who was wholly unaffected. 

The High Inquisitor.

In place of Rodolphus Lestrange, Dolores Umbridge stood, white lights glittering in her dilated pupils and her infamous grin plastered on her thin lips. They were painted her usual shade of pink, but the heat of the harsh Lumos Solem Spell left it bleeding into the deep crevices around her mouth. 

Fleshy aqueducts filled with sweaty pink pigment.

“Hermione Granger,” said Umbridge, her voice as saccharine as the cup of tea floating beside her. “I see that you managed to make it.”

“Would’ve been hard not to, considering I was dragged in here by an Auror.”

“ _Dragged?_ Don’t exaggerate, Miss Granger, it’s unbecoming.”

“I’m not exaggerating! My wrists are _bleeding_!”

“ _Ah._ Well, we’ll ensure your injuries are tended to after your hearing.” Umbridge swiped the cup of tea from the air and took a sip. “Unfortunately, our healing staff is not _in_ at the moment, as they’re on a field visit for another employee.”

“How inconvenient.”

Umbridge’s smile only grew. “Indeed . . . Now, before we get any further, I must confirm that you understand _why_ you are here—” 

“I _don’t_ understand! It was never explained to me, I never received a summons, and Bragwit—”

“Enough!” Umbridge shouted, beating her gavel upon its mahogany block. “Might I remind you that this is a _court of law_ , Miss Granger!”

And so it was. The whispers of the crowd and the clicks of the many cameras reached a sudden decrescendo, leaving only the hurried scratching of Rita Skeeter’s shameless Quick-Quotes Quill. It was the first time Hermione found she quite liked the quill. In a room paralyzed by fear, it kept moving, kept writing, kept _rebelling_.

“Hermione Granger, you face charges of disloyalty to the Ministry of Magic based on suspicions from _a multitude_ of your peers. Now do you understand?”

“No, you haven’t told me what their suspicions _were_.”

Umbridge thumbed through several parchments. “Misfiling government paperwork . . . inability to make deadlines . . . _false reporting_ . . . These are just the complaints I’ve received in the past seventy-two hours. If we were to reference former complaints—”

“Which we _won’t_ , because it’s against the law. I was cleared of those charges and therefore, they bear no weight in today’s hearing.” 

Umbridge’s confusion must have been rather newsworthy, because several cameras flashed in her direction just then.

“Well, that may be, Miss Granger, but I thought them worth mentioning to the Wizengamot. Regardless, we will be in this courtroom until we see through today’s proceedings, so let me ask again: do you _understand_ _the charges_?”

“I understand there are charges against me, yes, but I’d like it to go on record that I vehemently disagree with them.”

“Then you will be pleading your innocence?” Umbridge deduced.

_“I just said that.”_

“ _Hmph._ Very well, then. The Wizengamot should note that Miss Granger maintains her innocence.”

“The Wizengamot should also note that I did _not_ receive a formal summons. Instead, an Auror pulled me out of a Pensieve _by my wrists_.”

Several gasps could be heard from the crowd. The scribe looked questioningly to Umbridge, as though she were unsure whether or not to record what had just been said.

“We don’t issue a summons anymore,” dismissed the High Inquisitor.

“Since when?” Hermione spit back.

Umbridge’s lip twitched. “The change was recent.”

An older member of the Wizengamot, a wrinkled man with a large gold ring, raised a shaky hand. “Is this new process in legislation?” 

“The paperwork was expedited this morning. Now, if everyone would _please_ hold their questions, the prosecution would like to call one of Miss Granger’s complainants to the floor.” Umbridge idly fingered her gavel. “Does the Wizengamot have any objections to this?”

Corban Yaxley grunted. Hermione wasn’t sure what he meant by it, but when he added nothing, she decided he was simply annoyed he had to be there.

“In that case, the prosecution calls Pansy Parkinson to the floor.”

Hundreds of soft murmurs permeated the room. The excitement from the press was emphasized by the sudden flood of photography, and while some were delighted to see the respected Pansy Parkinson, others were more interested in the implications of her presence.

“She’s like a hawk,” one man said. “When she wants you gone, she’ll watch you, then dive in on you when the time’s right.”

Alas, as her former classmate crossed the center floor, Hermione did not see a hawk at all.

Pansy’s usual haughty air was now stale and tired, and rather than standing tall and composed, her shoulders slumped and her lip curled. Unrehearsed, the Head of Ministry Affairs was a reflection of her younger self: pinched in the face and prepared to quarrel.

The woman in her memory may have been a bird of prey, but the woman she observed now looked more like a fussy housecat.

“Miss Parkinson,” Umbridge lilted. “It was you that brought the issue with Miss Granger to my attention. Do you mind explaining your concerns to the Wizengamot?”

“Well, she claimed she carried out a non-order execution in the Department of Mysteries. The problem is . . . I know for a fact _she_ _wasn’t_ _there_.”

Both the audience and the Wizengamot began whispering amongst themselves.

“And you can prove that?” Umbridge asked.

“Easily. I have _troves_ of paperwork associated with a project there, including a scheduling sheet proving I was _in_ _the department_ that night.”

“And can you elaborate on this project?” 

“I had to stand in to supervise some research.” 

As she sauntered towards the Wizengamot, Hermione finally saw the hawk in her. She was circling, targeting her prey from afar. 

“As you know, the Ministry’s standard is that _every moment_ of work is logged when performed outside of the common hours,” Pansy went on. “We can account for _three hours_ of our time. I have a feeling the defendant won’t be able to do the same.”

“Logging isn’t required for— _wait_ . . . The only overnight research that’s approved right now is on _werewolves_!” Hermione bleated. “That’s Mortman and Gimble and their office is—”

 _“Close enough that I should’ve felt the floor quake._ The Gateway of Quietus _was_ your listed method of execution, was it not?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And you stand by the research that _you_ have done?”

“Last I checked, witnesses aren’t supposed to ask the questions,” Hermione muttered, sourly.

“Yes, thank you, Miss Granger,” Umbridge drawled. “You are right, indeed. Witnesses are _not_ supposed to ask the questions. However, _I_ can.” 

She snapped her fingers and several paper airplanes zipped through the letterbox and into the room. All nine of them unfolded neatly in front of her, ready to be read, ready to sentence Hermione to her fate. 

“So, Miss Granger,” Umbridge continued, “ _do_ you stand by your research? Because according to the paperwork I have here, ‘the Gateway of Quietus is magic well beyond any that we know in Britain. When it comes into contact with any object, the gateway swallows it whole, releasing magic so powerful that the entire level _shakes with enough force to knock portraits off most walls_.’ Those _are_ you words, are they not?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“But what? Did you _lie_ when performing official Ministry research?”

“No!” Hermione exclaimed. “But we’ve studied it so little, there’s no saying why it may not have—”

“And _here_ ,” Umbridge interrupted, shuffling through the parchments. “I have _several_ reports all completed by _you,_ and each of them claims the room shook when you did the deed. Are _these_ lies?”

“Of _course_ not!”

“So why should I believe that, all of a sudden, the ground did not shake in the way that _all of this research_ suggests it should’ve?”

Panicking, Hermione replied, “I’m—I’m right beside it—when it happens . . . I—I can’t say what people feel in nearby rooms. And I _really_ don’t know what people feel when they’re twelve doors down.”

“But here, in the report Miss Parkinson claims you misfiled, it states that you had to fix several doors in the department once the deed was done. Doors that were _closed_ before you began. If the force is powerful enough to rattle several enchanted doors off their hinges, wouldn’t Miss Parkinson feel it from an office on the same floor?”

“Well, _maybe_ . . . Considering she wasn’t in the actual _room_ with me, I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

“Based on _your_ research, Miss Granger, I would say it’s _very_ relevant.”

A supercilious laugh came from Pansy’s nose.

“I think that will be all, Miss Parkinson.”

Clearly satisfied with herself, Pansy maundered back to her seat, followed closely by the din of the swarming press. 

“Miss Parkinson, can I get a word?”

“Miss Parkinson! Great work out there today!”

“Miss Parkinson, down here!”

“Miss Parkinson!”

“Miss Parkinson!”

_“Miss Parkinson!”_

Even through the stars of the flashing cameras, Hermione could see that Umbridge was growing more and more impatient, and for once, she could sympathize.

“QUIET!”

She banged her gavel against the block as hard as she possibly could, sending a mighty wave of accidental magic across the entire room. Hermione grimaced as the gust whipped against her face, blasting through her sweat-laden hair, and concurrently, stealing away many hats from the Wizengamot. 

Several women screamed, the reporters went silent, the Wizengamot gasped, and most notably, a tinge of pink stained Umbridge’s cheeks.

“Well,” she said, softly. “Now that I have your attention . . . let’s continue with our witnesses, yes? _Ahem_ . . . The prosecution calls Jonathan Bragwit to the floor _._ ”

From the shadows, Bragwit emerged. His hair was mussed from Umbridge’s unexpected outburst, and as he quietly found the center of the room, Hermione could feel the fear emanating from him.

Perhaps, it was only because he was standing so close. Too close.

“Mr. Bragwit,” Umbridge started. “Do you remember where you were on the twenty-fifth of July?”

“Er, yes—I do.”

“ _And?_ Can you tell me where that was?”

“Er . . . I would’ve woken up at five, like I always do . . . Erm—had breakfast. Beans on toast, if my memory serves me right . . . Then, I took the Floo in, worked all day, didn’t take a lunch, and then I—er—I finished up at the Leaky for some drinks. That’s er—that’s where I ran into Granger.”

“And when you saw Miss Granger—what was she doing?”

“She was looking for the landlady,” he said, a bit more confidently than before. “She was quite eager to see her, actually.”

Low murmurs whirred around the Wizengamot members. Several of them still appeared to be adjusting their hats.

“The landlady at the Leaky Cauldron is Hannah Abbott. Is that correct?”

“ _Was_ Hannah Abbott.”

_“Was?”_

“Well, she’s dead now, isn’t she?”

It wasn’t a question.

“Perhaps,” Umbridge purred, “but perhaps not . . . Mr. Bragwit, what happened when Miss Granger _found_ Miss Abbott?”

“They went to a room,” he replied, seeming rather nervous again. “They—they erm—they weren’t anywhere that we could see them. Couldn’t hear them, either.”

“And did they come back?”

“No.”

“I see . . . And what time was it when they went to that room?”

“I don’t know,” he said, hesitantly. “I was—I was drinking.”

“You don’t even have an estimate?”

“I—I really don't know. Sometime between eleven and one thirty?”

“That’s a s _ubstanti_ al gap, Mr. Bragwit.”

“As I said, _I was drinking_.”

Hermione frowned. Under the pressure of the courtroom, the Auror was unpredictable.

“Very well, then. Mr. Bragwit, you may go.” Umbridge sounded disappointed, but it was short-lived. Whatever trace of chagrin had been there quickly dissipated as she veered her attention towards Hermione. All that remained was wrath. “Given the circumstances, it’s my recommendation that Miss Granger is questioned under Veritaserum. Does the Wizengamot agree with this assessment?”

The quiet deliberation barely lasted a minute.

“The Wizengamot agrees.”

Giddy, Umbridge struck her gavel, much more patiently than before.

“Bring forth the Veritaserum.”

The court roared as an Auror emerged from the wings and approached Umbridge’s podium. The woman uttered not a word. She simply presented Umbridge with a small phial, allowed her to examine it, and then turned to face Hermione, her hands clasped behind her back.

Her arctic eyes, even from afar, were clouded and lifeless.

“It’s a pity it’s come to this, but you leave me with no choice, Miss Granger,” Umbridge whispered. “All of your darkness will come to the light now. I hope you’re prepared for that . . . Maureen, if you will?”

The Auror marched towards Hermione, who leered at her, but parted her lips, nonetheless.

It was putrid. It was sour. It was _painful_.

Just as she expected, her mouth was the first to experience the terrible agony. The back of her tongue swelled and contorted like it was being pulled apart by sheer, animalistic force. Her throat burned like she had swallowed hot coals, and her _stomach_ —her stomach felt like it was melting from the inside.

When Umbridge finally spoke, it echoed as though she were a mile away.

“Miss Granger,” she began, “what is your full name?”

“Hermione Jean Granger.”

Suddenly, her tongue relaxed and her stomach calmed. The burning subsided, even if only a smidgen: a light reminder that Veritaserum, no matter how barbaric, worked.

“And what is your blood status?”

“You _know_ I’m a Muggle-born.”

 _“Indeed,”_ Umbridge denoted, offering the scribe a pointed look. “And would I be correct to say you’ve been known for your undying loyalty to rebellious efforts? Efforts such as, but not limited to, Dumbledore’s Army and _the Order of the Phoenix_?”

“Yes,” Hermione growled.

“And do you have a close personal relationship with a rebellious organization _at this time_?”

Her heart thundered in her chest. Her tongue twisted and expanded and began blocking her esophagus, and as she felt the affliction radiate to her legs and her hands, she choked out one word.

“No.”

“No?” Umbridge repeated. “Excuse me, Miss Granger, perhaps you didn’t hear me quite right—”

 _“I heard you just fine,”_ Hermione interrupted, despite her throbbing head and cramping muscles. “I’m _not_ in Dumbledore’s Army, the Order of the Phoenix, or _any other_ organization even remotely like them. I work for the Ministry—and _only_ the Ministry.”

The room was getting loud again, and Hermione’s skull felt like it was being split open with an axe. Umbridge was silent, the Wizengamot was arguing, the reporters were sputtering, and the audience was devolving into chaos.

She pressed her lips together as tightly as she could, ignoring the voice in her head telling her, _demanding_ her to retract her statement.

“SILENCE!”

The parchments on the podium zigzagged apart with another diminutive burst of accidental magic. 

“Dolores,” hissed a man from the Wizengamot. “ _Do_ calm yourself.”

Umbridge was shaking with rage, and even though Hermione could see this, she couldn’t fully process it. After all, she coudn’t process much of anything.

“You misfiled your paperwork!” Umbridge shrieked. “Miss Parkinson was _there_ and you _weren’t_. Now, I don’t know what you’re playing at, Miss Granger, but—”

Her hands were clammy. Stars speckled her vision. The blood in her veins thrashed.

She needed relief. She would do anything for it. Perhaps, she could afford a small reprieve. Perhaps, she could— 

“All right! All right, I admit it! I—I wasn’t sure of the time! It was late and I was tired and—”

“And you lied on the paperwork,” Umbridge finished for her. “So you admit it then.”

“I—I suppose it was a lie. I—erm—it was more of a—”

“And as for Hannah Abbott? Is she truly dead?”

The metallic taste of blood touched Hermione’s tongue.

“Yes.”

Trails of sweat ran down her face as she fought the urge to scream. That mistruth hurt much more than the rest, but Hermione knew she was going to finish the trial with poise. Months of training led up to that inevitable moment, and she wasn’t going to let it all go to waste.

“And _you_ executed her?”

“Yes! Yes, I—I did!”

_“Why?”_

“Because she was going to do something stupid!” Hermione cried, reveling in the little bit of truth. “I know Hannah. If— _when_ she found out something happened to Neville Longbottom, she would’ve hurt Ministry personnel.”

“You _know_ her? How _well_ do you know her?”

“We were in the same year. I see her at the Leaky Cauldron. That’s it. But I know her type.”

 _“Her type?”_ Umbridge pressed.

Hermione blinked back tears. Another bit of reprieve, offered by Umbridge herself. “She would have done anything to avenge Longbottom—and she had unfettered access to countless Aurors.”

Umbridge looked unconvinced. “Misfiled paperwork. A fireable offense.”

Several members of the Wizengamot scoffed, but the former Death Eaters appeared all too pleased.

“The Wizengamot will now discuss what is to be done with you,” Umbridge announced. “On that note, it is _my_ recommendation that you are terminated at once.”

The words entered Hermione’s ears, but she barely heard them.

“My name is Hermione Granger,” she whispered.

She repeated it like a mantra as the Wizengamot held their debriefing, still holding in her tears and stubbornly holding on to her pride. Each truth was but the slightest amount of relief, and she was desperate for more, desperate to do away with the searing pain.

After what seemed like hours, the smallest member of the Wizengamot climbed onto the bench.

“The Wizengamot has come to a decision!” she announced.

“ _Ahem_.” Umbridge narrowed her eyes. “And what have you all decided?”

“I—er—H-Hermione Granger, your employment with the Ministry of Magic will be hereby terminated—”

“That’s not what we said!” another member hissed. “Angela!”

“Yes, yes, sorry . . .” She wrung her tiny hands. “ _Your employment will be terminated_ . . . _unless_ you can find someone to Vouch for you.”

The crowd was buzzing again.

Even through her pain, Hermione understood the weight of the situation. Nobody would Vouch for her. Nobody would be willing to take on such a risk when her past was so troubling, so teemed with controversy.

“Anyone?” Umbridge asked, grinning her toadish grin. “Anyone at all?”

Nobody answered.

“Then, Miss Granger, I will be relieving you of—”

“Wait!”

It was a familiar voice. Warm and firm, Hermione wanted to both bask in its presence and drive it away—for his sake. 

Umbridge’s face fell. “Mr. Krum. I didn’t see you here.”

“Yes, vell, I almost did not make it here,” he snarled, descending down the stairs. “Considering I did not get a summons like everyone else, I think it is lucky I managed to find a seat.”

“Yes . . . lucky.” Umbridge retrieved her wand, only to finger it in a manner that may have been threatening to a lesser man, but not to the likes of Viktor Krum. She cleared her throat. “You _do_ understand the implication of Vouching for Miss Granger?

“I do.”

“And you know that if she is found guilty of any future crime, you will pay consequences equal to hers?”

“I do.”

Hermione wanted to tell him not to chance it. She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t worth it, and that he should never tie himself to anyone that way, but her least of all. She wanted to admit she was with the Order, and beg him to come with her where he would be safe.

Alas, the cause was on her mind, and they were in a full courtroom.

So she swallowed the urge.

“Very well, then.” Umbridge finally said. “Perform the spell, Maureen.”

“But, High Inquisitor—”

“I said to perform it!”

The Auror nodded and met Krum by Hermione’s torturous chair.

“Your hand must be up,” Maureen explained. “You’re taking an oath.”

Krum nodded and held up his hand. Hermione was quite certain her ears and gums were bleeding from staying silent, and now that Viktor was involved, it took every iota of her strength not to warn him of her treason, not to beg him to run and never look back.

But she had already betrayed so many of her friends. 

What was one more?

“Reach out to her,” Maureen explained. “The top of her head.”

Hermione’s teeth were sinking into her tongue. Of all the places he had to touch her, it had to be her pounding head.

She closed her eyes, as though it might help the pain subside.

It didn’t.

“Do you, Viktor Krum, Vouch for Hermione Granger’s actions as an employee of the Ministry of Magic?”

Hermione’s mouth twitched. She bit down on her tongue harder, drawing a mouthful of blood.

“I do.”

“And do you agree that all punishment that may befall her will befall you, too?”

“I do.”

If she had not studied the side effects of Veritaserum so closely, she might have thought her brain was going to implode.

“And do you, Hermione Granger, accept this act of trust?”

Hermione swallowed the blood. She swallowed the fear and her questions and her hopes—but mostly, she swallowed her moral compass.

She could only apologize with the tears running down her cheeks.

“I do.”


	8. The Return to Malfoy Manor

The Red Chamber had earned its namesake that day. As Hermione scrubbed the victim’s entrails from the corner, she wondered who they had been and what they did to deserve such a fate. Was it someone she knew? Had they suffered long?

With blood slick on her hands and matted in her hair, she only hoped it had been spilled postmortem.

“I have never used a—vot did you call this thing?”

“A mop,” Hermione repeated, for the third time that afternoon. “M-O-P.”

“Mop,” Viktor echoed. “M-O-P. And Muggles do this all the time?”

“ _No_ , Muggles definitely don’t do _this_ all the time.”

For hours, they had worked on opposite ends of the room, scrubbing every inch of the chamber as the building’s caretakers would. Viktor was meticulous, obsessing over the crevices and divots in the stone, often calling Hermione over to check his work. She praised him, deciding it was better not to tell him that nobody would notice the trivial imperfections.

“How are you feeling, by the vay?”

“What d’you—oh, right. I’m fine.”

Her earlier agony had already slipped into the locked compartments of her mind, joining the other moments she was better off forgetting.

“It is wrong, vot they did to you, Herm-own-ninny. That is vy I Vouch for you, you know. Because they are cruel, and you are good.”

Hermione stifled a scoff.

Like a disease, cruelty had a way of spreading. Those immune to it often paid the price with their own mortality, and the more time Hermione spent with herself, the more she believed she was not one of the immune. Viktor, she feared, was.

The sickness would take her, and the darkness would leave him for dead.

“Viktor, what you did today—”

“I know you do not approve of it, but the ritual is done. There’s no need to talk about it now.” 

He leaned against his mop, staring at her the way he so often did, the way that made her wish she saw him like he saw her. All the Earth was in Viktor Krum’s eyes, but there had been stars in Ronald’s.

“This Ministry, it does evil, evil things, and votever I can do to help you stop them, I vill do. Even if it ends in death.”

“Viktor—”

“I mean it. If there is any hope left, it is vith you. If there is anything I can do—”

“No,” she said quickly. “There’s—there’s nothing. You’ve done enough.”

He shook his head. “You are the same as your friend Harry Potter, you know.”

Suddenly, washing away the dirt and the blood was all too interesting. 

For months, she and Viktor had waltzed around the truth. The omissions, the frustration, the wordless questions, the tears, and the subtle squeezes of her hand. Hermione was stuck between two worlds and Viktor was where they overlapped: a friend in the grey, a friend where she had been so alone.

But the dance was over. 

“Is that so?” she finally asked.

“You both try to do everything by yourselves,” he explained, “ven you have friends that vont to help.”

_Help._

She was beginning to fear the mere concept of it. Help ended in bloodshed. Help ended in shattered promises and lifeless eyes and blazing hellfire. Help was extortion. Help was murder. 

Viktor Krum didn’t deserve to be “help.” He was too good for the world. Too good for her.

Hermione Granger, on the other hand, was far too entrenched in it all. 

The mop squelched as she came to a sudden halt. “Do you _really_ want to help?”

“Help _you_? Herm-own-ninny, you know the answer to that.”

“And you know what I would say in return,” she whispered. “Viktor, what you want from me—”

“The gift I gave you today is not a curse. All I vont from you is a promise that you’ll use it. The vorld _needs_ you to use it.”

“And if it kills you?”

“Then I die doing vot is right.”

* * *

Blisters and calluses punctuated the end of Hermione’s miserable workday. After six dragging hours in the Red Chamber, a morning rifling through memories and lies, and the new weight of Viktor’s bond with her, she wanted nothing more than to sink into her small, sad bed.

Unfortunately, the Atrium was too packed to Apparate.

“They really should put in more fireplaces,” muttered Viktor. “Always stuffed together like Grindylows in a tiny tank.” 

“I usually leave late so I guess I never see it so busy . . . Is it like this _every_ day?”

“ _Da_. I haven’t been able to Apparate out of here in months . . . Vouldn’t dare after that man accidentally splinched Vilbrook . . .” He pushed a strand of hair from her face. “You seem tired, you know. You should rest ven you get home.”

She leaned away from him—a subtle, wordless reminder that she was not his to touch. “Yeah, I’m erm—I’m just going to make a cuppa and then probably get straight to bed. It’s been a long—ouch! _Excuse you!_ ”

She whipped around to scold the person that had bumped into her, but instead, she was silenced by her stuttering heart. Arvell Boot was weaving through the bustling crowd, gesticulating wildly as he shouted at the man flanking him. Alas, it wasn’t this that gave her clammy hands and anxious gooseflesh. It was the conversation that cut through the buzz of the Atrium. It was the alarm in Arvell’s voice, the urgency in his stride, and most of all, it was the sudden reminder of her morning memo.

“They went _this morning_!” Arvell exclaimed. “It’s what? Seven now?”

“Nearly,” the man replied, gruffly. “‘Scuse me, ma’am, ‘scuse me . . . Boot, slow down, _for Merlin’s sake_! We can’t do anything til Butcher and Wipp are back, anyway!”

“Back from where?”

“Raid in Knockturn Alley.”

“Of course,” Arvell groaned. “Well, when they get back, I want them potioned up and out the ruddy door to see what in Merlin’s name is going on. And _you’re_ going with them. The Malfoys are dangerous, dangerous people, Orlin. I daresay we’ll be lucky if the Carrows aren’t dead . . . ”

The din of the Atrium swallowed his words.

They sent the Carrows. For a simple raid, they had sent the two most dangerous hit wizards the Ministry had ever known.

“Herm-own-ninny? Are you all right?”

“Yeah—I er—I forgot I have something to do before I go. I’ll er—I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

“Yes . . . all right,” Viktor said, suspiciously. “Tomorrow, then.”

His hand brushed hers in their parting, but she ignored it, instead turning around to push through the teeming Ministry workers. 

Viktor was right to describe it as a tiny tank of Grindylows.

Every step she took was a step into somebody else. Feet, elbows, hands, knees: Sometimes hers, sometimes theirs. It was bad enough to be bumped into no matter where she went, but her reputation made it even worse.

They eyed her, they pointed at her, some even raised their voice upon saying her name—a challenge for her to round on them and defend herself, but one she had no time to accept.

“Hermione Granger! Tell me! What _do_ Krum’s bollocks taste like?”

“Like freedom, apparently!” 

She just needed enough space to Apparate—enough space to _breathe_.

Enough space to not stomp on strangers’ feet.

“Ow! Watch it!”

“Sorry! Sorry!”

The woman spluttered as she fell into the chaos that was the eighth level of the building, but Hermione had forgotten her as quickly as she came. Ignoring the shouts and the cries of those she shouldered violently to get there, Hermione trudged towards the spot beside the fountain—the single, empty spot.

The floor was flooded there.

It was the result of a thoughtless hex the Squib caretakers were never able to fix. A hex that had unwittingly given her precisely what she needed.

She broke away from the crowd, nearly slipping on the wet marble, but she had never been more grateful for a near-fall.

Once she was composed, she had only three words on her mind.

_Destination. Determination. Deliberation._

* * *

Fog caressed the grounds of Malfoy Manor. It snaked through the hedges and clouded the footpaths. It embraced the lamenting peacocks and kissed the wilting roses. The manor was in mourning, so the fog swept the lonely place up into its arms, offering solace only an old friend could bring.

The manor wanted no other.

Slightly ajar, the hand-carved doors groaned in protest, warning away trespassers and whispering their tragic story. Their song was a solemn symphony, conducted by the wretched weight of grief and Hermione’s hammering heart. The stench of Dark Magic danced with the gardenias where she lingered, and somewhere, among the melancholy of it all, there was the faint glimmer of hope. 

Hidden behind her shame, it called to her.

The war heroine steeled her nerves and cut through the gardens, her wand trained on the soft light that poured into the safety of darkness. The bones of the manor howled and creaked in the wind, offering their final word of caution, trying to conceal the hope within, attempting to push her away.

But Hermione didn’t listen.

Instead, she crept towards the stuttering doors, moving under the noisy cloak of the angry hinges and the haunting gusts. Her Disillusionment Charm wavered, and while this should have stopped her, the smell of blood only pulled her closer.

Like a moth to flame, she peered through the crack between the doors. And like a moth to flame, she paid for it.

A pool of crimson shimmered under the flickering candles, and at its very core, lay Narcissa Malfoy.

Kneeling over her was her only son, sobbing violently and squeezing her lifeless hand between both of his own. His platinum locks were streaked bright red, whereas hers were as dark as the abandoned glass of wine on the nearby accent table. 

Hermione, burdened by Malfoy’s anguish, waited in the doorway, her veins growing colder with each of his terrible wails. The constricted feeling of her Disillusionment Charm had diminished, but there was no recasting it then. It was draining magic—the type of magic she did not have the strength for.

All of her strength was with Draco. 

He was rocking on his knees, cradling Narcissa’s hand and murmuring words Hermione couldn’t quite hear. She averted her guilty gaze, for the private, raw moment was not hers to witness. She was its creator, its purveyor, and now, she was its intruder.

Suddenly, his cries stopped.

Confused, Hermione pivoted, only to be shoved into the wall with great force. Her skull rattled when it made contact, and she let out a sharp yelp as a single arm trapped her in place. A wand then stabbed her throat. A wand she knew well. Malfoy’s wand.

His stormy eyes were bloodshot and wild. They were the eyes of a man on the brink of insanity, the eyes of a man with nothing to lose.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I—I came because I—I—erm—”

“You had something to do with this, didn’t you?” he growled, his voice unhinged and dangerous and everything Hermione feared it would be. 

She choked on her words.

“DIDN’T YOU?”

The doors slammed shut behind them as his magic pulsed wildly in the air.

“No! Of course not! I—I would never—”

“DON’T LIE TO ME, GRANGER!” he boomed, spraying flecks of spit across her face.

“Malfoy, you’re being ridiculous! You know I could—I’m not—I could never—” 

“And why should I believe you? You show up here out of nowhere and two days later, we get raided? I wasn’t born yesterday, Granger. This has you written all over it.”

He trembled with rage, his wand vibrating against her jugular.

“I came to warn you!” she exclaimed. “They’re—they’re coming for the Carrows. For _you_! I—I heard Boot talking in the Atrium and—and I—”

“And you what? You thought you’d ride in here on your white horse and play the hero again? Please, Granger. I know your game. You don’t play it as well as you think.”

“Malfoy—”

“They broke into my home and they murdered my mother right before my eyes. So I had no choice but to return the favor.” He craned his neck. “But of course you knew that, didn’t you? You were here sniffing around the manor so you could raise a claim against us. You knew they’d send the Carrows because of who we were. And you knew I’d get rid of them for you and your precious Order.”

The wand dug deeper into her flesh, so deep she was certain it would leave a mark.

“I was worried about you! _And_ her! And if I could’ve intervened, I would’ve! Malfoy, I may do a lot of things for the Ministry— _and_ the Order—but this?” She gulped, wincing at the discomfort of the wand jabbing her voice box. “She saved my best friend’s life. Do you really think I could have that on my conscience?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening and his arm relaxing, but only briefly. 

“I can help you,” she whispered. “You just have to let me.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Two Ministry workers are dead in my dining room. Well-known ones at that. If there are more, I’ll kill them too, and I’ll do my time in Stafhelm with bloody pleasure. I don’t need your help.”

Leverage.

“Look, Draco. I understand how you’re feeling. Trust me, I do.” She pushed his wand away from her throat, as calmly as she could manage through the fear and the frustration and the regret. His other arm still kept her pinned to the wall, but he didn’t aim his wand at her again. “You’re not being rational, though. _I_ wasn’t rational. When Ron died, I felt the same exact way—but killing a few Aurors isn’t going to hit them where it hurts. You _know_ this. Deep down, I know you do.”

He sucked in his cheeks, yet he stayed silent. 

“I can give you your revenge, Malfoy. With your help, the Order can bring the entire Ministry down. You just have to come with me _now_. Before they get here.”

“And how do I know I can trust you?”

His eyes were pleading, searching hers for something to grasp onto, some semblance of friendship and support in the world that had done him so wrong. Hermione felt the truth clawing at her larynx, begging her to just confess what she had done.

Alas, other words spilled out instead. Words that were much more important than assuaging her guilty conscience.

“You trusted me before—and I helped you,” she said, though her insides twisted and contorted with every syllable. “Let me help you again.”

Something in his expression broke, but still, he held her against the wall, still unconvinced.

Still pleading.

“Fine. Say I do trust you. How can I trust all your little friends? I’m sure I’m on some sort of list.”

“You’re _not_ on a list,” she insisted, staring him down the same as he stared at her. “And they _need_ you. Remember?”

His chest heaved with adrenaline. “It’s too dangerous having me around. They’ll never go for it.”

“ _Yes, they will_. I promise.”

“And what about people like you? People working for the other side?”

“There aren’t any. I’d know if there were.” She sighed, not daring to acknowledge his arm on her out of fear he may grow violent. “Look, we can do this until Aurors come and arrest us both, or we can go and get you to safety. _Please_ , Malfoy, just come with me.”

He swallowed. His arguments and options were running thin and they both knew it. “And what about my mother? I won’t—I won’t leave her here for them to find her. I—I won’t go unless you can promise she’ll have a proper burial . . . A _traditional_ burial. Not some Muggle nonsense.”

Hermione nodded. “Of course. I—I have the perfect place. Truly, she’ll be at home there, but we _really_ have to go now—”

“I swear to God, Granger, if it’s in the Weasleys’ _filthy_ yard—”

“It’s not,” she said, quickly. “It’s—it’s well-suited for her. She’ll be safe. I promise.”

Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as he glanced at his mother once more. 

“Where?”

The anguish was palpable as it emanated from him, but the raging waves of his magic calmed into somber flickers, mere shadows of the pain eating him from the inside out.

Hermione took a shuddering breath and carefully pushed his arm away. He let it drop heavily to his side, watching her with anticipation. She gave him a sad smile. 

“Somewhere she’ll be with family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Becks for all her hard work on this chapter, and thanks to Jass for all the great notes.


	9. The Black Cemetery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warning: Accidental amputation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An eternal thank you to my beta, Becks, as always, for being an absolute queen and spending her Valentine's Day pingponging this work back and forth with me.
> 
> Check out her awesome Dramione work here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katschako/pseuds/sweetestsorrows
> 
> Highkey recommend putting a bookmark on Evenly Matched. Pureblood Hermione? Some Nottpott on the side? What more can you ask for?

Dust clouded the air.

Having gracelessly landed on a floor of weathered mahogany, Hermione and Malfoy grumbled and coughed into the austere atmosphere that now surrounded them. It was an austerity Hermione knew well. An austerity she visited often.

 _Home._

For her, anyway.

“Merlin, Granger. Does the Ministry just hire anyone these days? Barely pass your Apparition test and you get handed a job and a nice shiny badge?”

Malfoy wrenched his hand away from hers, a stark reminder of the reason for their spontaneous visit. He rolled onto his side and the warmth of his body disappeared, leaving her only with his furious insults and unmatched disgust. According to him, she was “dangerous,” “a maniac,” and “shouldn’t be allowed to Apparate with a dishrag, let alone human beings.” 

His snark was strangely comforting, though. It numbed her agony and slowed the cogs of her mind, flooding her senses with the one thing she hadn’t known in an age.

Normalcy.

“. . . and it’s lucky you didn’t splinch the both of us . . . I swear, Granger, if anything has happened to my mother . . .”

His words were swallowed by the groan of the protesting floorboards as Hermione shifted her weight. Eaten by insects and rot, the house was long deserted by the Dark Magic that once caressed and nurtured its very foundation—much to the lament of the home’s only hanging portrait.

“Who dare enter my home?! Scum! Blood traitors!”

From underneath her sheet, Walburga Black screeched her usual bile. Hermione almost chuckled, reminiscing of better times—times when she and Harry redecorated the place, only for Kreacher to howl in despair.

“ _Blood traitors?”_ Malfoy echoed. “Where the hell are we?”

Hermione barely heard him.

Malfoy and Walburga’s voices were suddenly mere static as she sniffed the pungent air, plagued by the stench of blood and expelling functions.

The stench of battle. The stench of hell.

_Death._

It clung to her and embraced her like an old lover, dragging her down into the depths of her most macabre recollections. Swallowing her. _Drowning_ her.

_“YOU FILTHY MUD—”_

“Blood,” Hermione breathed. 

Running along the cracks of the weathered hardwood, ruby rivers wove towards Hermione, sparkling under the torchlight that flickered upon the dirty walls. The noxious trail led all the way back to the source—back to _her_.

Narcissa.

Hermione wanted to crawl towards her, to say she was sorry for everything, to promise Narcissa that she would find a way to keep her son safe. She would find a world he could live in. She would go to the ends of the Earth to pay her debt. She _had_ to tell her. She _had_ to.

But she couldn’t. 

There was no wind left in Hermione’s aching lungs, and as soon as she sat upright, she nearly doubled over in pain. She winced and clutched her ribs, vaguely aware of Malfoy scrambling towards his mother’s corpse.

A corpse without an arm. 

The splinch had been so severe it amputated the limb at the shoulder—and it was far from a clean cut.

“You mangled her!” Malfoy shouted. “You promised me she’d be safe and you bloody desecrated her body!”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she choked, frantically searching for her wand. “I—I didn’t—”

“Who enters the house of my master?”

Through the haze of suffering and Malfoy’s fury, she could only see the blurry silhouette of the deep, decrepit voice. It was a short silhouette—one with bony arms and bat ears. One she had known since she was just fifteen years old.

“Kreacher?”

“Miss Hermione?” the elf asked. “Kreacher did not expect Master’s friend so soon.”

“You can just call me— _argh!_ —Hermione, Kreacher. Just call me Hermione.”

Kreacher ignored her. “My mistress was shouting . . . Kreacher feared there may have been intruders . . .” His heavy-lidded eyes darted between Hermione, Narcissa, and Malfoy, before finally, he poked a tiny finger at Hermione. “Actually, Kreacher is going to be needing proof Miss Hermione is not an impostor. It isn’t every day Master’s friend brings a guest . . . and a dead witch.”

“Kreacher, I know you’re just doing what we’ve told you to— _argh!_ —but can you—oh. Right.” 

He had to follow Harry’s orders above hers. 

Even if Harry was in Stafhelm.

“My favorite stew of yours is lamb mince. I escorted Irma here thirteen months ago, and Fleur— _oh, God, argh_ —two months after that.” The pain in her ribs was growing worse; every movement and breath made it hurt more, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could take it. “And when I was last here I told Walburga’s portrait to shut up. Now if you would _please_ help me—”

 _“Walburga?”_ Malfoy interjected. “As in, Walburga _Black_?”

“Yes—my mistress,” Kreacher whispered, suddenly seeming very puzzled by something. He retracted his accusatory finger and abandoned the groaning witch he had known for so many years, instead approaching the man he only knew as her guest. Amidst the confusion, Kreacher had not stopped to look at Draco Malfoy, but now that he had, there was a sense of wonder in his features . . . Almost as though he’d seen the wizard a thousand times before . . .

And he had.

Malfoy’s face was plastered upon the tapestry in the drawing room.

“What’s his problem?” Malfoy spat. “Why’s he looking at me like that?” 

“Excuse Kreacher’s manners, sir. Miss Hermione’s guest looks very familiar . . . ”

“Kreacher, this is—” She inhaled sharply, wincing at the dagger-like feeling behind her ribs. She was beginning to feel faint as her breaths came in shallow gasps, but she could see the glimmer of curiosity in Kreacher’s deep-set eyes. There was no getting his help until introductions were made. “This is Draco Malfoy . . . and . . . Narcissa Malfoy. Now, if you could please help me find my—”

“Narcissa Malfoy?” The small elf paled as his gaze flickered to the fallen witch. “Narcissa Malfoy was born Narcissa Black.”

Hermione nodded weakly. “She was killed in a Ministry raid. We—we need Fleur’s help—”

“Miss Fleur is not here. She left for France two days ago.”

“She—she _what_? She wasn’t supposed to—” Hermione sucked in as much air as she could, yet her words faltered.

Leaving the safehouse was strictly forbidden—and for good reason.

The Ministry had eyes everywhere.

“Kreacher will help.” 

“Thank you, Kreacher, but— _argh_ —I’m not sure if— _agh_ —I’m not sure you’ll be able to.”

Fleur was one of only two members of the Order fully trained in healing magic—an apparent requirement at Beauxbatons. Without the Frenchwoman, Hermione feared she may never breathe properly again . . . and that Narcissa would be buried without her dignity.

Fleur couldn’t have picked a worse time to break protocol.

“Kreacher will help. It is Kreacher’s duty as a servant to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”

“The Noble and Most—? So _this_ is where you brought us?” Malfoy asked incredulously. “To Potter’s deadbeat of a godfather’s house?”

“I told you—” She faltered, before settling for a single wheezing word. “Family.”

Something like annoyance graced his features. 

“You’ve cracked a rib.”

It wasn’t a question.

Hermione managed a nod, but Malfoy didn’t bother looking at her for confirmation. Instead, he pointed at Kreacher and sneered. “Fix it.”

“His name is—”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Granger, now is not the time for another one of your crusades for social justice.” He jerked his head towards the elf. “Go on, then. Your job is to serve the Blacks, no?”

Kreacher nodded and crouched over her, his tiny hands making quiet ministrations across her abdomen. He whispered some words Hermione didn’t quite hear, and with each passing second, she could feel the pain subsiding.

Elves were truly magical creatures. Truly magical, indeed.

“Thank you, Kreacher.” She sat up. “That’s much better.”

“Miss Hermione would do well to Apparate more carefully in the future.”

“So I’ve been told,” she muttered, frowning. “Kreacher, have you seen my—”

Before she could finish her thought, Malfoy thrust her wand into her hands.

“Can’t even Apparate properly _or_ keep track of your wand. Have to tell you, Granger, I’m not feeling very confident in you or your Order right now.”

It was hard to blame him.

Finally able to think straight, Hermione realized that even with all of the commotion, her former school librarian still had not made her way downstairs.

Was Fleur alone in circumventing their bylaws—or had Irma left as well?

“Kreacher, where’s Irma?”

“The woman with the books does not leave her room. Unless she is stealing sugar cubes from the kitchen.” Quietly regarding Narcissa, he added, “Kreacher should tend to Mistress Black.”

Hermione glanced at Malfoy. His eyes were glossed over with sorrow and his jaw tightly clenched. Upon feeling her gaze, he cleared his throat.

“Traditionally,” Malfoy said at last. “The ceremony _must_ be done traditionally. She already wears the shame of being buried away from my father.” He eyed Hermione. “But that couldn’t be helped.”

Forlorn, the small elf nodded, gaping at the fallen woman. Hermione wondered if he had ever met her. Had Narcissa ever come to visit her cousins and her aunt? Or was she simply another face on the tapestry? A celebrity in his eyes. An idol he admired from afar.

A silver corpse.

“It has been many years since Kreacher has made preparations for a Black funeral.”

“But you know what must be done?” Malfoy asked quickly. “You know how to . . . _prepare_?”

Kreacher nodded, slowly. “Kreacher has served the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black for centuries. Kreacher could never forget the ceremony.”

“Kreacher knows what to do. And she’ll be with . . .” Hermione gulped, thinking of the many times she walked in the family cemetery behind the large home. Buried there were Walburga, Regulus, and many other names she recognized from the tapestry in the drawing room. “She’ll be with her cousins. And her aunt.”

Malfoy paused at that, attention pinned once more on his mother’s blue lips and severed arm. Quietly, Hermione nudged Kreacher, who did not quite seem to understand what she was asking.

She didn’t dare try to reattach the limb herself. Malfoy would never forgive her if she made it worse.

Upon noticing her sympathetic gaze, Malfoy quickly looked around the room and scowled. “Leave it to Potter to leave this place in such a state. A stain on my family’s legacy.”

Usually, Hermione would have barked at him, but she couldn’t. Not this time. Not after all she had done.

“I think . . . I think we should proceed,” she said, awkwardly. “With the er—with the ceremony, I mean. Before . . .” 

She pressed her lips together. The gruesome details were better left unsaid.

Malfoy sniffed, but there were no tears in sight.

“Erm—Kreacher?” Hermione began. “Will you—can you—” 

Silently, the elf made an infinitesimal motion with his hands, his expression somber. Narcissa Malfoy’s body rose into the air and her splinched arm raced back towards her limp frame. Malfoy winced as the limb snapped back into place.

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Hermione whispered. Awkwardly regarding Malfoy, she gestured down the hall and said, “It’s erm—it’s this way.”

Quietly, she led the way past the troll leg umbrella stand and Walburga’s fuming portrait. From underneath her sheet, she still screeched at them, blind to her niece’s pending funeral service and to the fact that she was scolding her own great nephew, the final scion of her noble House.

Hermione took a deep breath as they reached the backdoor.

“It’s . . . small,” she warned. “I mean, it’s not small to _me_ , but compared to the grounds of your manor . . .”

“Stop stalling, Granger. Let’s get on with it.”

Hermione nodded and pushed open the door.

As always, it was a sight to behold.

Fairy lights twinkled above in the enchanted canopy. They were lightning in the air, but against the marble headstones, they were mere flickers, no more a distraction than the neighboring houses or the gentle hum of flowing traffic. They danced among the vines climbing the sharp wrought-iron fence, and when they caught the reflection of the wards, they gleamed against the words etched in a white monument.

**ORION BLACK**

**1929-1979  
TOUJOURS PUR**

_Always Pure._

The phrase no longer bothered Hermione. During the first summer she stayed at Grimmauld Place, she had found solace in the quiet cemetery. Everyone else avoided it, but she spent most evenings there, watching the fireflies and plucking blades of overgrown grass. It was a reprieve from the confines of the home—a reprieve from the Dark Magic that seeped from the very walls.

Still, she had skirted the graves. At least for a while. 

Eventually, fascination forced her to look at them—fascination driven by the fireflies and the flecks of magic that swarmed around the monuments and the headstones. Orion’s grave was just one of many with the Black family motto upon it, and the more she read the words, the more accustomed to them she became. The less power they held.

The very people that tried holding her down couldn’t stop her from traipsing on their bones. 

Once, she had even left them roses.

 _“I gave flowers to your mother and father,” she had told Sirius. “It_ is _Christmas after all.”_

_“And how exactly do you give flowers to the dead?”_

Malfoy interrupted the memory. “You can’t be here.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t be here,” he repeated. “During the burial. It’s for—”

“Pure-bloods, sure,” Hermione said, more curtly than she had any right to be.

_“Family.”_

Gratitude. At least his subtle brand of it.

“Sure,” she said, a faint smile gracing her lips before she opened the door. Stopping, she added, “I’m sorry, by the way, Malfoy. If I could do anything to change what happened today, I would.”

Before he could wave her off, she went inside and sunk to the floor.

* * *

The ceremony lasted hours. Hermione quietly sat, back to the wall, until her legs ached and Walburga’s shouts turned to light snores.

Her stomach growled, but she had no right to be hungry. She didn’t deserve to eat. 

Besides, she had other business to tend to.

Up two flights of stairs she went, her mouth pressed into a severe line and her stomach threatening to empty bile over the bannister. Speaking to Irma always made her feel ill. Perhaps it was trauma from all her years of being reprimanded for speaking in the library, or perhaps she just hated the smell of the woman’s awful perfume.

Rosewater and patchouli. Truly revolting.

Dreading the wall of alcohol-laden stench, Hermione stopped in front of Irma’s door and raised her knuckles to it. Rather than rapping on it as she intended, she dropped her hand to her side and took a deep breath.

Five minutes passed before she found the nerve to knock.

“Kreacher, I told you—” The door ripped open. “Oh! Miss Granger, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Irma.”

Hermione inwardly thanked the Ministry for her Occlumency lessons. It would have been otherwise impossible to school her features as the scent wafted into the hallway. 

Was Irma _bathing_ in that miserable concoction? 

The former librarian made a throaty noise, interrupting Hermione’s bitter thought. “What brings you here so early?” 

“You haven’t confirmed my identity yet,” Hermione said, arching a brow.

“Oh—oh, of course. Silly me. I—you just caught me unexpectedly.” She swallowed, yet stood tall, overcompensating for her initial error in observing protocol. “In your third year, I scolded you for mishandling a book. Which book was it that you mishandled?”

“ _The World in Numbers_ by Esmeretta Rogoth. Only one of six existing copies, which you not-so-politely pointed out.”

The corner of Irma’s mouth twitched, if only for a second. “Very good. Now, if you would please tell me what’s going on, Miss Granger, I _would_ appreciate it. You weren’t scheduled to come for another month.”

“Well, firstly, you should know I’m going to be staying here tonight,” Hermione retorted in a clipped tone. “And I’ve brought a guest. You’re to treat him with respect.”

Irma frowned. “And who is this guest?”

Stomach bubbling, Hermione strengthened her Occlumency walls.

“Draco Malfoy.”

“Draco Malfoy,” Irma repeated, disbelievingly.

“Yes, Draco Malfoy, and I meant it when I said you’re to treat him with respect.” Hermione exhaled. “He’s in the cemetery burying his mother right now. I’d appreciate it if you could keep that in mind during your interactions with him.”

Irma stiffened. “Narcissa Malfoy is dead?”

“The Ministry killed her,” Hermione muttered, looking away. “A raid went bad.”

“A raid. And did you have anything to do with said raid?” Irma folded her arms, glaring down at Hermione past her beak-like nose. 

“How could you suggest such a thing? Merlin, Irma. Of all the—” 

“Oh, please. Word travels fast around here, you know. Weasleys aren’t very good at keeping secrets from each other and naturally, the French girl hears everything from her husband. She goes on her tangents all around the house, and she may not think I hear, but I _do_. You were trying to coerce the boy just two days ago and now his mother is dead?” Irma shook her head. “I wish I was surprised you took it this far, Miss Granger, but I can’t say I am.”

Hermione was clawing at her nail beds again. “I didn’t do anything, and I’m rather offended by your unfounded accusation. And speaking of Fleur—did she say why she left? She wasn’t supposed to step outside the house.”

Reluctant, Irma ran her tongue over her teeth. “Do you have the report on the safehouse in Wiltshire?”

“Irma, you know I can’t—”

“Then I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to help you.”

Irma began closing the door on her, but Hermione reached inside, urgently shouting, “He’s safe!” She sucked in a patchouli-laced breath and fought the urge to vomit. “Argus. He’s okay. He’s safe.”

The bird-faced woman backed away from the door and let out a steady sigh. Her features remained composed—pinched and strict as they always were. But Hermione could see the change. She recognized that overwhelming sense of relief.

Every time Ron used to return from foraging, she had felt it herself.

“Fleur took her baby to Paris yesterday. She mentioned her parents.”

Hermione closed her eyes. “Thank you, Irma.”

Charlie would not be pleased with his sister-in-law’s sudden disappearance, but at least she had something to tell him.

“I imagine I should prepare to be moved.”

“Yes, that would probably be wise.” Hermione wrung her hands. “Irma, do you happen to know if Fleur was brewing any Veritaserum?”

A knowing smile dawned the woman’s lips for the first time. “I daresay it’s not for the Malfoy boy?”

“No, it’s not.”

Irma nodded. “Then I’d encourage you to check the potion stores.”

“Thank you.” Hermione said. She gulped. “If I learn more about Argus, I’ll tell you what I can, okay?”

Irma’s expression broke once more, and in a mere whisper, she echoed, “Thank you.”

* * *

Hermione sat at the table where they used to conduct so many meetings. In front of her and on either side of her were bowls and spoons, all mismatched, which she assumed would earn a sneer from Malfoy.

She slaved over the meal, all alone in the enormous basement, and still she winced at the taste. 

Even so, it was better than ration meals. 

“I made dinner,” she said, when Malfoy finally trudged in well past midnight, Kreacher at his heels. “It’s nothing special. Just soup. There’s fish in it, some vegetables.”

Malfoy didn’t reply. 

“You—you really ought to eat—”

“Where’s my room?” 

Defeated, Hermione sighed. “Kreacher, could you show Malfoy to an empty room? Fleur’s would be good.”

Kreacher nodded and led Malfoy up the stairs. While the elf was quiet, Malfoy stomped on each step.

For him, it would undoubtedly be another sleepless night. For her, it would be another evening of agony.

She uncorked the phial of Veritaserum, and she took a tiny sip.

Familiarity.


	10. Fiendfyre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Becks for all of her hard work helping me on this chapter, as always!

Four hours.

It took four hours for the microdose of Veritaserum to wear off.

Hermione hated the daily ritual, but it worked. In spite of the excruciating pain, she had made it through her hearing.

But just barely.

That meant more frequent doses. Bigger doses. All when she needed to lie more than ever.

All when she had no choice but to be around _him_.

He came downstairs at half seven, just two hours after the effects had subsided. Hermione observed him as he passed the wall with his namesake, his hair mussed and his pace sluggish from sleeplessness.

He didn’t give the tapestry a second glance.

Instead, he plopped on the couch opposite her, only to stare at the vacant fireplace, his eyes hooded and glazed like they were when he was Occluding. Maybe he was. It was probably the only thing that dulled the pain.

“Morning, Malfoy . . .” Hermione said, cautiously. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, just bloody superb,” he spat. “My mother is dead, I’m wanted for a felony, and the Ministry is probably ransacking the manor as we speak. All in all, never been better.”

Hermione sighed. “Can I get you some tea?”

“Firewhisky would be preferable.”

_Firewhisky._

His sarcastic request pulled her back to much simpler times—back when they had spent hours shaping Malfoy’s testimony for his trial. When the Minister wanted Draco and Narcissa dead, but they still had a chance. When Ron was alive, but they never talked about him.

When they could make light of the world at large and their place in it.

Back then, past the piles of books and parchment, she would watch Malfoy sip his drink of choice—tea or firewhisky, depending on his mood—until the moon replaced the sun and their responsibilities called them away. 

This time, he wouldn’t make it to trial. There were no chances left for Draco Malfoy. Not if he were caught.

“Malfoy . . . I—I _know_ it’s been a difficult twenty-four hours,” she started. “But Fleur has compromised our location. We’ll probably have to Apparate soon and I can’t have you drunk if— _when_ —we need to go. It’s too dangerous.”

He grumbled something unintelligible in response. Based on his tone alone, Hermione had a feeling it was something she didn’t want to hear. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Stubbornness. At least that part of him was still intact.

“So, do you want the tea or not?” 

“If I take it, will you stop pestering me?”

She had no right to be frustrated. Not after what she did.

Yet she was.

Despite the guilt that was eating at her insides, she couldn’t help but wish he was more grateful. She brought him to Grimmauld Place. She saved him from the Ministry. She put the entire Order of the Phoenix, _the entire mission,_ at risk—all for him.

Now, she was offering him tea, and he couldn’t even manage a “thank you.”

But she had no right, so she forced a tight smile.

“Sure. How do you take it?”

She remembered quite vividly that he took his tea with milk, yet it seemed too intimate a detail to offer. It was precisely the sort of thing he might mock her for.

“However will keep you out of my hair the longest,” he muttered. 

Hermione pretended she didn’t hear him. “I’ll just bring a full service.” She stood, still smiling as benignly as she could. “Back in a jiffy.”

She glanced at the Black family tapestry on her way out of the drawing room. Her gaze lingered on the portrait of Malfoy, but avoided his mother just above. Still, Hermione could feel Narcissa’s eyes on her, so she quickly hurried away, passing Sirius’s portrait on the way down the first flight of stairs. He tipped his head in greeting and wished her well.

She didn’t deserve it.

She deserved to be condemned.

She deserved to be ostracized.

She deserved to be dead.

With a final hop off the very last step, her stomach dropped and tears welled in her eyes. Hermione fully expected to be alone in the basement, and it was the perfect opportunity to cry the way she truly needed to.

Alas, there was someone else down there.

A soft, rickety hum came from the depths of the kitchen, accompanied by the light splashing of water and quiet mutterings. Frowning, Hermione followed the noise.

“Kreacher?”

She turned the corner and gasped, surprised to see the elf waist-deep in the sink, covered in bubbles and vigorously scrubbing his armpit.

Was this where he bathed?

The elf kept humming, eyes shut, only briefly stopping to mumble something that sounded like, “Kreacher must stay clean,” and “. . . the return of the noble House of Black.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Kreacher? It’s—it’s me.”

His eyes snapped open then, narrowing as he turned to look at her. “The Mud—Miss Hermione should be staying out of the kitchen. Miss Hermione has no business down here.”

He had nearly called her a Mudblood.

He hadn’t used the word in almost a decade. Yet, it seemed with the reappearance of a member of House Black, Kreacher found it all too easy to revert to his old ways. Hermione decided it was best to let it go.

But still it stung.

Cheeks pink, she swallowed down the feeling of betrayal and stammered, “I—I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only looking to take tea to Malfoy. I can come back in a bit—”

“Master Malfoy needs tea?” Kreacher squawked. A loud splash and the sound of displacing water echoed throughout the kitchen as he scrambled to get up, hurrying to fulfill the request himself. “Miss Hermione should have summoned Kreacher. Kreacher would have—”

“I can take care of it. You—you seem busy—”

“Kreacher is _never_ too busy to serve a member of the House of Black.”

His voice was dark and dangerous as if she had just spat the worst sort of insult at him. He suddenly appeared beside her, dripping wet and smelling much better than he usually did.

“Well—er—okay. If there’s anything I can help with—”

“Miss will not help with anything. She will not prepare a tea service up to the standards of Master Malfoy.”

That was the second time he said it. _Master_ Malfoy.

The elf snapped his fingers, summoning an ebony tea set—easily the finest tea set Hermione had ever seen. Emblazoned upon the side was the Black family crest. In gold.

It must have been stored away, one of Kreacher’s final treasures.

He snapped his fingers once more, and milk, honey, and loose tea leaves floated towards him from the pantry, pouring themselves into the proper dishes and returning to the shelves they came from. Kreacher fussed with the placement of each and every item upon the levitating tray, arranging and rearranging to a near obsessive degree.

The elf worked more deftly than she had ever seen him work—all to impress Draco Malfoy.

After several minutes of shifting, scooting, and mumbling spells, he gasped.

“Sugar.” He looked up at Hermione, forlorn. “The woman with the books has eaten all of the sugar.”

“Eaten it?” Hermione asked, confusedly.

“Yes! Always munching on the cubes!” he wailed, beating his fists against his head. “The woman with the books. She eats them like candy! The woman with the books _ruined_ Master Malfoy’s tea service!”

“Kreacher, stop it,” Hermione said, squatting down to his level and seizing his hands. He recoiled at her touch. “Malfoy will be happy with whatever you serve him, I’m sure of it. And you can call Irma by her name, if you’d like.”

She released his hands, only for him to begin pulling on his bat-like ears. “The Black family deserves the very best. Master Malfoy is the last in the line of Blacks . . .”

“Kreacher—Kreacher, please stop,” she begged, exasperated. “There's no reason to fret, all right? I happen to know he doesn’t take any sugar in his tea, anyway.”

It was the truth, however strange it seemed. Ever since she had known him, Malfoy had an insatiable sweet tooth—one that rivaled even Ronald’s. From Sugar Quills to Fizzing Whizzbees, Malfoy could always be found tearing into whatever sweets he could get his hands on, only to set the wrappers aflame in the corridors. By their fifth year, he had made a habit of chucking them at younger students, shining his green and silver badge when they would try to argue.

He really had had been an awful prefect.

Even in adulthood, his candy habit remained the same. He was probably the only wizard alive who ate Peppermint Toads while drinking sugarless tea with far too much milk.

Of course, Kreacher did not know their history, leaving him wholly unconvinced.

“Miss Hermione is certain?”

“Trust me, I’ve known Malfoy a long time,” Hermione said with a wink. “Now, how about I take this up to him? I interrupted your bath.”

He scowled. “Kreacher’s duty is to serve—”

“Your duty is to serve Master Harry, and per his orders, anyone associated with the Order of the Phoenix. And right now that’s me.” She stood tall and seized the floating tray. “So go finish your bath. I’ll make sure this gets to Malfoy.”

Uncertainly, Kreacher stared at her for a long moment. Almost as though he were trying to determine whether she had any say or not in what he did.

Even after all the progress he had made since Harry inherited Grimmauld Place, he still battled with five hundred years of learned prejudice. 

And trauma.

The only kindness Kreacher was ever shown was from a blood purist, while a blood traitor later abused him endlessly.

Hermione suddenly felt guilty. 

Heartbroken, she summoned as much empathy as she could muster for the little house-elf, but she didn’t give him time to argue. She instead took the tray upstairs, ignoring the wave of Harry’s beloved godfather and grinning when she heard the splashing of water resume. 

The grin was short-lived.

As she slipped back into the drawing room, she found Malfoy standing, staring at the tapestry. His hands were deep in his pockets, and she could have sworn she heard a small sniffle. She placed the tray on the coffee table, and glanced back at him.

“I brought tea.”

He didn’t respond.

“Malfoy?”

With a jerk back into reality, Malfoy turned and knit his brows together, as if he were surprised to see her there.

“That tea set is probably worth more than everything you own,” he snarled, marching to the table and snatching the milk. “Bloody lucky you didn’t break it.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue with him, but promptly closed it and quietly sat down on the couch. 

No matter how much anger festered, her guilt was utterly effective in dousing it.

“You forgot the sugar,” he added derisively, frowning at the tray. 

“Irma ate it all. There wasn’t any left.”

The truth was an easy out. Malfoy did not need to know she remembered how he took his tea. 

“Weird old bat.”

He began pouring milk into his cup with the ease and practice of someone with years of etiquette training, though his lips still tugged downward and his eyes were unblinking.

“What kind of tea is this?” he asked abruptly.

“Erm—I—I think it was English breakfast,” she answered. “Why? If you have a request, I’m sure there are other kinds in the kitchen—”

“Where’s yours?”

Hermione glanced at the tray. There was, indeed, only one cup. A cup with the Black crest stamped upon it. 

A cup that certainly wasn’t meant to be sullied by a Mudblood.

“Oh, I—” She thought of Kreacher—how nervous he was. How much he wanted to impress Malfoy. How much it would crush the old house-elf if he had failed. With an inhale, she simply said, “I just didn’t want any.”

He appraised her, his steel gaze prying in a way she hadn’t felt in some time.

Immediately, she Occluded, showing him only what she wanted him to see. Their failed Apparition, their encounters at Malfoy Manor, her trial. Things that _were_ on her mind. Everything but that purple parchment she had sent to Arvell Boot, the catalyst to their current situation.

His suspicion still evident, Malfoy pushed away the cup. “I see.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Malfoy,” she spat, swiping the cup from the tray. She took a giant swig before trying to pass it back to him, wincing only at the ungodly amount of milk. “Happy now? I’m not dead!”

“Now your disgusting slobber is all over it,” he growled, plopping back onto the sofa across from her. “Keep it.”

Hermione made no move to drink any more of the miserable concoction. Instead, she placed it back on the tray, staring at it as the near-white liquid settled back into place.

After a very long while, she said, “I don’t know when they’ll be coming—but when they do, we’ll have to move fast.”

“I assumed as much.”

“Right . . .” She bit her lip. “So I think we need to talk about expectations.”

“Ah, yes. The pound of flesh.”

“Malfoy, it’s not—I don’t want you to think of it like that.” 

“It doesn’t matter what you want me to think of it as. You want something from me in return for the protection of your precious Order. It’s an exchange of services. There’s no need to make it seem like anything less.”

“Well yes, but I just want you to be ready—” 

“I’ll be ready. I’m not a child.”

Hermione took a deep breath. His pewter stare bore into her, bloodshot and determined in a way she had not seen in a long time.

Ron used to give her that look. Harry too. And Luna and Padma and Arthur.

The same fire that fueled the Order may have very well lived in the heart of Draco Malfoy. 

It was fitting, in a poetic sort of way, considering fire was what she needed him for.

“Okay,” she started, hoping he wouldn’t immediately reject her plan. “When I spoke to you the other day—”

“You mean when you wanted me to help you break into Stafhelm?” he asked, bitterly.

She picked at her nail beds. “I know it’s asking a lot of you, but I promise the Order has thought very hard about this and considered every possible option. My department conducted all of the research for the protective enchantments on the entrances, so I know those spells like the back of my hand. Aside from signature charms, there’s only one way in—and it’s extremely strong magic. Even the Ministry won’t teach it.”

There was that strange, yet familiar sense of prodding again. When he realized it wouldn’t work, his nostrils flared.

Hermione wondered if he used Legilimency on everyone, or if it was reserved for her alone.

“They teach Dark Magic in the Ministry now,” he pointed out. “I imagine whatever method you need is certainly something you can learn there.”

“ _No_ , _it’s not._ Be logical, Malfoy. Do you really think they’d teach employees the only magic that could get them into Stafhelm? Half the Ministry has friends or family locked up in there.”

Suddenly, she cut into the bed of one of her fingernails, the sharp pain eliciting a wince. She sucked away the blood.

“You still have that filthy habit?” he sneered. “Good God, Granger. No wonder the government’s a nightmare with you at the helm.”

“I’m not—” Hermione steepled her hands at her forehead and closed her eyes. “Look, before, when we were working on your trial . . . You told me there was a type of magic you knew well. But you haven’t used it in a very long time. Not since—not since what happened to Crabbe.”

Something flickered in his silver irises. 

A chink in the armor.

“You’re barking.”

“I’m not,” she insisted. “Malfoy, please just listen—”

“I won’t do it,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“It was too dangerous for _Crabbe_. You, on the other hand, are a master of it. You told me so yourself. And I trust you.”

“I didn’t mean that it’s too dangerous for _me_ ,” he rumbled, irately. “It’s that I can’t trust one of your idiot friends not to kill me while they’re trying to cast it themselves.”

“So, we’ll be careful,” Hermione shot back.

“You can’t just _‘be careful’_ with Fiendfyre.”

She stood, throwing up her hands in exasperation. “Well, _you’ve_ managed to conjure it!” 

How could he have the audacity to argue with her when she offered him his only ticket to freedom? When she was risking so much to help him?

“And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” he asked, caution in his low timbre. 

“Don’t be such a child, Malfoy. I wasn’t trying to insult you.” Plunking back onto the sofa, she pushed a fresh nail bed with her thumbnail. “I was only saying that it’s learnable. And it’s the only way we can get into Stafhelm—”

“And get Potter out,” he muttered. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Busting him out of there so he can come save the day like he always does.”

“Malfoy, please don’t make this about your childish rivalry with Harry. I . . . I just don’t think we can win without him.” She wrung her hands, wondering how to explain it in a way that wouldn’t upset him. “I’m just one person, you know. And—and the Order is relying on me more and more. If something were to happen to me . . .” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

“You need Potter around to clean up your mess. In case you wind up dead.”

The words had never been spoken aloud. Never had she had to hear them, to feel them falling from the lips of another. Up until that point, they were merely a simple worry that resided inside the confines of her mind—a thought that felt much safer there.

“Well,” she inhaled sharply. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“I would. You want to get Potter out so you can chase down Dolohov’s demented son with the rest of your imbecilic friends.”

“Excuse you!” Hermione fumed. “Those _‘imbecilic friends’_ will be keeping you safe, and as long as they are, you will pull your weight! Just like the rest of us!”

She had finally snapped.

Pushed to the edge, she had shouted at him when he was at his most vulnerable.

“Look, Draco, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I want to know the plan,” he cut her off. “And also who made it.”

Confused, Hermione replied, “It’s my plan.”

“At risk of complimenting you, Granger, that’s slightly reassuring.” Idly, he picked up the tea and examined it before taking a sip. “And what _is_ the plan?”

“Well . . . we can get into the details later on, but essentially, the Order needs you to teach a few of us how to wield Fiendfyre. To break into Stafhelm, we’ll have to attack every entrance—and we’ll all need to be ready for anything.”

“How many entrances are there?”

She sucked in a deep breath. “Four.”

“Four,” he repeated. “So, you want me to train four of your little friends how to wield the most ancient and powerful Dark Magic known to wizardkind? Splendid, Granger. Absolutely bloody splendid.”

“No, we’ll only need you to teach three of us,” she corrected. “The fourth entrance—well, that would be you.”

He choked on his tea. “Excuse me?”

“You wanted your revenge on the Ministry, didn’t you?”

He gaped at her. “Well yes, but—” 

“So this is your chance. Unless you didn’t actually mean all that about avenging your mother . . .”

“ _Don’t you dare_ try and use my mother against me,” he said through gritted teeth. “What you’re asking for—it’s no simple feat, Granger. I wasn’t joking before when I said your friends could kill us. And I don’t know what you remember about Crabbe, but it wouldn’t exactly be the most comfortable death. Lots of screaming, if you don’t recall.”

“What’s _your_ plan then? Wait around while the Ministry kills everyone around us? Try to flee the country? I’ve _seen_ what the Ministry does to people like you and me, Malfoy. I may be skating by right now, but how long until they catch me doing something for the Order? A month? A year?” She crossed her arms. “And what they’ll do to you if you were ever caught, after that stunt you pulled back at the manor . . . Well, I imagine we’d meet a similar fate. I’ll just leave it there.”

Malfoy hollowed his cheeks. “So that’s it, then? You protect me in exchange for this little favor that will probably kill me? I must say, Granger, seems like a pretty rotten deal.”

“Well if you don’t do it, it’s highly likely you won’t survive another year, anyway. It’s called a calculated risk.” She glanced at the clock. “Look, I sent a message to Charlie last night. If he shows up while I’m gone, just pack everything you think we might need.”

“Excuse me? I’m not your bloody house-elf.”

“No, but I need to get to work. And I have a feeling it’s not going to be an easy day, so I’d appreciate it if you could get ready to go. Kreacher will help if you ask him.”

His lip curled. “Yes, Your Excellency. Once I’m finished with my tea, I’ll start packing all the luggage I brought with me.”

The sarcasm didn’t bother her. The glaring didn’t bother her. Even the insults didn’t bother her.

But “ _Your Excellency_?”

What a terribly cruel comparison.


	11. The Force of the Cause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Becks as always, for tirelessly tearing apart this chapter. Comments and constructive criticism are appreciated.

Sleep eluded Hermione that evening. She tossed, and she turned, recent events playing on a loop—a reel of overwhelming horror she wished she could escape. Images of Narcissa Malfoy. Sneers of “Your Excellency.” Endless memos flooding her office. They all mocked her.

Was the cause worth it?

When Hermione was sixteen, she was unwaveringly certain that it was. It wasn’t until the Forest of Dean when the reality of the war challenged her convictions for the very first time, and her faith was shaken. Yet, she didn’t falter for more than a moment. She followed Ron to Wales. She campaigned against Ludek Dolohov. She even pledged support to Lucius Malfoy, of all people. Alas, by the time she swore fealty to the Ministry, she was tired. Tired, but still convinced it was worth it. Two years had passed since then.

A lot could happen in two years. 

There were so many dead. So many whose blood was on her hands.

Each time her lids closed, the eyes of her friends stared back at her. Glazed, unshutting windows of crystalline mortality. All of the lives she should have saved, but couldn’t.

Hermione turned on her side to face the wall, but before she could so much as fluff her pillow, she heard the creaking of her door. Immediately, she rolled back over, ripping off her sheets with one hand and grabbing her wand with the other. Her chest heaved up and down, only beginning to slow as she identified the intruder under the light of the moon.

“Charlie,” she wheezed. “You scared me!”

“Sorry. I figured it was better we spoke in person. Your message was . . . concerning.”

“Sure, sure.” Hermione stumbled out of bed. “I expected this, really. I don’t know why I’m being so jumpy.”

Charlie pressed his lips together. “Well, if there’s any time to be jumpy, it’s now.”

He was right.

The walk downstairs was silent. Charlie emanated fatigue—fatigue he tried to disguise with combat robes and clipped words. He moved with a slouched, weary gait, and his hair was tangled from the countless times he ran his hands through it. He did that when he was stressed—but he was always stressed these days. Everyone was.

Hermione moved slowly to avoid kicking his heels.

Once he finally reached the bottom of the stairs, he took a hasty turn, his onyx robes sweeping dramatically behind him. Hermione suddenly felt underdressed in her striped pajamas—a mere shell of the disciplined, competent witch the Order of the Phoenix expected her to be.

She followed him all the way down the hallway, until they reached a familiar door. 

“The old meeting room?” she asked, nervously.

Just two nights before, it was reduced to a simple dining area. Before that, it hadn’t been used since Harry lived there.

It was strange for the Order to be back in that place now—taboo even.

Charlie released a heavy sigh and opened the door. “For old times’ sake, I suppose.”

Hermione slipped inside, unsurprised to see McGonagall at the far end of the long table. As Charlie mumbled a Muffliato Charm, Hermione awkwardly waved at the woman she once considered a mentor. For months, they only spoke on the Order’s terms. The chasm between them felt natural now.

No more envelopes with biscuits inside. No more birthday wishes.

They lived, breathed, and _were_ the cause.

As they were meant to be.

There was no time for anything else.

“Good to see you, Hermione,” she said, her hands wrapped warmly around a steaming cup. “Kreacher made tea, if you’d like some.”

“I suppose that depends on when the Portkey leaves.”

“Right to the point, then. Very good.” McGonagall glanced at Charlie. “I’m afraid my pocket watch has still proven irreparable. Would you mind providing the time?”

Charlie pulled out a chair in the middle of the table, perfectly between the two witches. He glanced at his watch, his clouded eyes glittering with that Weasley determination Hermione knew so well. Determination that reminded her so much of Ron.

Insomnolent, but still deadly.

“You leave in four hours and—” He glanced at his watch again. “—forty-eight minutes.”

“And you’ll be taking Mr. Malfoy with you,” McGonagall added.

“But not Irma and Kreacher?”

“No,” McGonagall said, sternly. “They will be sent another Portkey. They’re going to a location I cannot yet disclose.” She took a sip of tea, her expression knowing and with a hint of amusement. “What I can promise is that they will be safe, so long as they both stay where we take them.”

“And Malfoy and myself are going to the Rook, I assume?”

“No,” Charlie cut in, his tone harsh. “Not yet.”

Hermione frowned. “The Burrow, then?”

“No. You’re going back to Hickaby Cottage. You’ll be provided with a set of Portkeys to get you to and from Farnfurn on workdays. You can Apparate to the Ministry from there.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, though. The Portkeys wouldn’t be needed if we just stayed at the Rook House.”

Charlie rubbed his forehead with his palms. “Well, that was the _original_ plan, but there’s been a bit of an issue.”

“What do you mean _‘an issue_?’” Hermione asked, urgently. “What happened?”

McGonagall delicately placed her cup on the table. It sounded loudly in the silence of the room.

Yet, she said not a word. It was Charlie who answered the question, his tone resigned as it cut through the stagnant air.

“Cho is dead.”

Hermione went cold. 

Months had passed since she had last seen her old schoolmate, but when she had, Cho greeted her with a warm embrace and a meal more delicious than anything Hermione had eaten in weeks. They chatted for hours, and even though the Wizarding World was at its worst, they smiled. They gossiped. They even laughed.

That was how Hermione would remember her.

Not bleeding with open, glassy eyes.

Not bruised and broken.

In her mind, Cho would forever be smiling, and laughing, her mouth full of roast pork.

“How?” Hermione managed at last. “Who did it?”

McGonagall cleared her throat and looked down into her tea.

With a heavy exhale, Charlie muttered, “Blaise Zabini.”

The room was spinning.

The man Hermione trained with. The man she shared an office with. It was not news to her that he was capable of murder, but why Cho? What had she done? And how did he find her?

“How did he know?” Hermione croaked. “Where she was—how did he know?”

She almost didn’t want an answer. An answer would make it all too real.

A cuticle stung as she sliced into it with her thumbnail.

“ _That_ , we’re still unclear on,” Charlie said with a sigh. He raked his fingers through his hair. “But until we know, Susan is under watch. We have to make sure she wasn’t involved.”

“Involved?” Hermione asked, incredulously. “You can’t be serious! It’s _Susan_!”

“We have to be careful. We can’t afford not to be.”

Rage bubbled inside her stomach. “Oh, come _on_! I’ve known her since we were eleven! She’d rather die than break the Fidelius Charm, and you know it!” She whipped towards McGonagall. “Surely, you didn’t approve of this?”

McGonagall closed her eyes. “Trust me when I say I was shocked too, Hermione, but we’re only taking the proper precautions. Miss Patil has been moved, and she is under watch as well. That said, we are quite certain she was not involved, given her . . . condition.” She steepled her fingers. “Since Miss Chang is no longer with us, there were concerns regarding who would take her place in the operation with you and Mr. Malfoy . . . as it appears you’ve convinced him to assist us in our plan.”

Pipers always had to be paid, and it seemed Hermione was about to pay hers.

She exhaled and Occluded, despite her anger.

“I overheard there was a raid on Malfoy Manor. I was simply going there to check on a friend.” She craned her neck and spoke with false confidence, Occlumency providing the armor she needed. “That said, it was irresponsible and I apologize for my rash behavior. I have a bit of a soft spot for Malfoy, and when I saw the condition he was in after losing his mother, I felt compelled to help him. It won’t happen again.”

Charlie scoffed and threw up his hands. 

“Hermione, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how dangerous it is to have a—as you so put it— _soft spot_ for Draco Malfoy,” McGonagall said with concern. “I understand you two developed a friendship before his trial, but the Order cannot afford risks like this, especially not when it comes to someone so unpredictable.”

“I already said it won’t happen again,” Hermione replied, shortly. “But I don’t regret it. We need Harry back.”

McGonagall pursed her lips, but nodded, nonetheless. “You will be responsible for him. I can’t say I’m displeased he chose to help us. I just wish it had been under different circumstances.”

“So do I.” Hermione smiled, solemnly.

Charlie was less sentimental, though. He groaned and clasped his hands together. “Look, McGonagall asked me to keep this short, so I don’t want to beat a dead hippogriff, but you broke protocol. And when you break protocol, you aren’t the only person it affects.”

“Obviously, I know that. And I’m sorry.”

“Are, you, though? Do you really know the toll for your actions? When your otter came, I swore so loudly that Xenophilius thought it was some kind of dark creature and tried to hex it. He spilled a half-dozen flagons of Calming Draught, so for the next week, I get to deal with him without his potions. You can imagine what great fun that will be.”

“I already apologized, Charlie. I don’t know what else you want from me.”

“I want you to follow the bloody rules! And for Merlin’s sake, you need to _think_ before you go blasting off your Patronus! This time, it’s a week of Xenophilius destroying the house. Next time, it could be an attack or worse! I was in Gloucester just ten minutes before I received it. What if I’d gotten it before I was back at the safehouse? I would’ve been forced to Obliviate everyone around me and _that’s_ not a mess I want to clean up.”

“Gloucester?” She quickly turned to McGonagall. “What was he doing in _Gloucester_? Nobody told _me_ about this.”

Gloucester had a strong Ministry presence. Nobody in the Order was meant to go there—except her.

McGonagall took another sip of her tea. “We agreed it was best that he met a man about a dragon. It would have been foolish to let the opportunity slip through our fingers.”

“A dragon?” Hermione asked, puzzled. “Why in the world—”

“We need to protect the Rook in every way we can,” Charlie said, hurriedly. “The Ministry already knows where we are, and we can’t very well hide it now. The protective enchantments have proven sturdy in the past, but one serious raid could be the end of the Order as we know it.”

“And unfortunately,” McGonagall quipped, “we do not know how much information Mr. Zabini gathered. A few days ago, I might have hoped you could misdirect him, but given your recent trial, it would be too suspicious if you tried.”

“I’ll Obliviate him,” Hermione said, without thinking. “He may not have told anyone yet. I have direct access to him—” 

“We can’t risk your cover like that,” Charlie interjected. “It’s far too messy.”

Hermione’s ears burned. She and Blaise hadn’t spoken a word during work that day. The thought of facing him made her nauseous.

She wanted to be there when he fell.

“That’s why you decided to send us to Ireland instead. So you could get ready for a fight!” Hermione looked at McGonagall for confirmation, frustrated at the endless secrecy. “Malfoy and I can help! If you think there will be a raid—”

“You’re too valuable,” McGonagall said, shaking her head. “And if Mr. Malfoy has the skill set you’ve claimed, so is he.” 

“And in the event Aurors _do_ show up, which at this point, seems inevitable, a dragon can do more damage than all of us combined. It will buy us time to get out. And the fewer of us, the easier that will be,” Charlie explained.

“All I’m gathering is that you risked everything by going to Gloucester and buying a dragon instead of asking for help,” Hermione said, fuming. “And how are you going to take care of it, anyway? It can’t live on garden gnomes!”

“I’m a professional, Hermione. I promise that’s all been handled. Besides, he needed a home.” Charlie gave her a small smile, slipping into his former self for the briefest moment. “I’ll take good care of him. You _know_ that.”

She decided to save the rest of her speech on creature rights. In its place, she merely muttered, “Fine.”

“For what it’s worth, you’ll join us at the Rook once we have more security measures in place. You’ll see for yourself all the work I’ve done to make him comfortable . . . So long as we aren’t raided soon.”

“Okay.” Hermione felt slightly less angry, but was too proud to admit it. “So Malfoy and I are off to Ireland for now. Is someone meeting us there? For training?”

“Well, you just took Hannah there, did you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“She’s our best bet,” Charlie interjected. “I know she’s a bit shaken after what happened to Neville, but she’s not the only one who lost someone they love. She’ll suck it up and move on. Her other options are St. Mungo’s or cursing the furniture.”

He spoke cruelly, but his voice broke. 

“Alicia didn’t bring good news, did she?” Hermione whispered. 

Charlie clenched his jaw. “No.”

“I’m sorry.” She reached out and squeezed his interlaced hands, suddenly feeling guilty for being annoyed with him. “Ginny is strong, you know. She’ll get better.”

It was probably a lie.

Ginny had been in St. Mungo’s since they took Harry. When the two of them were attacked, she shot a curse at an Auror from behind—and the Auror was quick to retaliate. He and his partner tortured her to the brink of madness while two others dragged Harry through the leaves and mud.

They stopped only to jinx her eyes so she couldn’t shut them.

Her memory was branded with Harry’s battered form shrinking into the distant horizon, and by the time the Aurors left her for dead, there was only one word she could whisper.

_“Harry."_

She was found two days later, repeating it like a mantra.

Each morning, the hospital staff was forced to give her the same copy of the _Daily Prophet_ from the day Harry was taken to Stafhelm. His picture was plastered on the front, bloody and howling, and by the time Ginny finished reading it each day, she was too.

It was meant to be a punishment worse than death—and for Ginny, it was. 

“There’s nothing to be done for her. At least not right now,” Charlie said, his expression hard. “As for you and Hannah, you’re to start training with Malfoy immediately. _And keep a clean nose at work._ All eyes are on you after that little trial of yours. It’s the most I’ve seen you in the papers since the whole thing with the Macmillans.”

She bit her lip, trying her best not to think of the Macmillans and how callous Charlie was for mentioning them. The Minister had murdered them in their home—and he’d made Hermione watch.

“Do you have a problem with that? You have that look on your face.”

“No, no.” Hermione shook her head. “I want to get started as soon as we can, but—but Malfoy’s mother—”

“Is another life lost, just like Cho and Neville,” Charlie interjected. “Don’t let him get sentimental on you, Granger. He owes you.”

McGonagall was staring at her again with the expression she wore when she knew more than Charlie did. Hermione’s insides twisted and she strengthened her mental walls.

“I’m sure Hermione will have no problem putting Mr. Malfoy to work,” McGonagall remarked. “She understands how important this is, soft spot or not.”

“Of course I do,” Hermione said, quickly, though she wasn’t as confident as she sounded. “And yes, I’ll—erm—I’ll make sure we get started right away. I promise.”

“Brilliant. Because if you don’t, Harry will be stuck in Stafhelm for the foreseeable future. As I’ve made clear to you before, we don’t have any backup plans for him—even if we wish we did.” Charlie stood and pushed in his chair. “Unfortunately, McGonagall and I have other things to attend to, so we need to be going. I think this was a good meeting, though.”

“Yes,” McGonagall agreed, stiffly. She too stood and pushed in her chair. “I’m very sorry to have to cut this short, Hermione. I often regret how little we see one another.”

She then reached into her robes and pulled out several small figurines, one by one: broken ceramic farm animals that had probably come straight from a Muggle’s bin.

A cow, a pig, a horse, some chickens.

Hermione imagined they would be just as ugly if they were intact.

“ _This_ is the Portkey for you and Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall said briskly, holding up the ceramic cow. “It leaves at six sharp. Please ensure that Mr. Malfoy is prepared to go well before then. I have a feeling he may be resistant to your request.”

“He won’t be any trouble.”

“Very good. As for the rest of them, the bottoms are marked with the dates and times they depart for your home at the Farnfurn compound. I recommend you slip outside every once in a while so your neighbors see you.”

Hermione quickly counted the figures upon the table. There were eleven.

“And when they run out?”

“I suspect they will be sufficient until your next move.”

The next move. Ireland was to be a short-lived affair.

“All right,” Hermione said, carefully. “And should Malfoy know how long we’ll be there?”

McGonagall tipped her head. “Do what you think is right, Hermione. You have good intuition, which is more than I can say for most.” She followed Charlie towards the door, before stopping. "Oh, and Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“Once we leave, you might explain to Mr. Malfoy how information is a privilege and that there are certain ways to earn it. I expect my _students_ to eavesdrop, but a grown man should surely know better.”

Hermione furrowed her brow, but as Charlie opened the door, a loud thud answered her question. Malfoy was on the ground and rubbing his forehead with a scowl. As she, Charlie, and McGonagall stared, he scrambled to his feet, and wiped the dirt from his robes.

He was fully dressed. 

“I hope you weren’t getting ready to leave,” Charlie sneered.

Malfoy glared at him. “I don’t exactly have anywhere to go.”

Charlie smirked and clapped him on the back, “Not true, actually. Hermione’ll fill you on the details. Hope you like the rain, mate.”

Before Malfoy could reply, Charlie Disapparated. 

“What was that about?” the blond spat. He rounded on McGonagall. “Where are you sending us off to?”

The headmistress cracked an unlingering smile. If Hermione had blinked, she would’ve missed it completely. 

“As Mr. Weasley said, Hermione will explain all of this to you.” Her eyes slid back to Hermione. “Send a Patronus if you need anything else, though perhaps it would be best if you send it to me first next time.” 

“Yes, of course. I’ll do my best to limit contact.”

McGonagall nodded. “That would be most appreciated.” She raised her chin. “Sometimes we have to make difficult decisions for the good of the cause, you know. You’re more familiar with that than anyone, so I trust you’ll forgive me for the dragon.”

Hermione was familiar, indeed.

“A dragon?” Malfoy asked, incredulously. “What dragon?”

Hermione ignored him, regarding McGonagall instead. “Be safe, okay? There are always eyes in the castle.”

“While I appreciate the concern, Hermione, I daresay those eyes are more afraid of me than I am of them.” She gave Malfoy a nod. “Mr. Malfoy.”

And as soon as his name left her lips, she was gone.

Malfoy crossed his arms. “That comment about the rain. What did he mean?”

“He _meant_ that we’re going to Ireland,” Hermione replied. “And it was extremely stupid of you to try and listen to us! If Charlie was in a worse mood, he might’ve decided to cut you loose and leave you for the Aurors.”

“Cut me loose? Don’t make me laugh, Granger. You’ve made it quite clear to me your lot cannot afford to ‘ _cut me loose_.’”

“You could try being more grateful, you know,” she ground out. “If it weren’t for the Order, you’d likely be dead by now.”

“Get me out of this alive, and then I’ll be grateful.” 

He stared at her, challenging her, prodding at her mind, searching for an entrance. Hermione instinctively fortified her walls and hid behind them.

“I’m going to pack some supplies,” she muttered, brushing by him. “You can help or you can stand around and brood. It’s up to you.”

Quite certain he was going to choose the latter, she began the process of scouring Grimmauld Place for anything useful. The Veritaserum was the first thing she shoved in her bag.


End file.
